


Almost Perfect

by HoshiMukudori



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bittersweet, During Canon, Friendship, Gen, Hilson (Platonic), Parent-Child Relationship, References to Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:53:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 44,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25151179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoshiMukudori/pseuds/HoshiMukudori
Summary: [Season 7 - Alternate plotline stemming from episode 15 "Bombshells", which provides a different departure for Cuddy.]When Cuddy is diagnosed with metastatic kidney cancer, House is left grappling with limited treatment options and repressed emotions he must come to terms with, for Cuddy's sake, for Rachel's sake, for his own sake. There are dark moments and tears, but also smiles and notes of light. It's bittersweet, much like life. We can't always get what we want, but sometimes, we get what we need.
Relationships: Greg House & James Wilson, Greg House & James Wilson & Rachel Cuddy, Greg House & Rachel Cuddy, Lisa Cuddy/Greg House, Remy "Thirteen" Hadley & Greg House
Comments: 8
Kudos: 17





	1. Out Of The Chute

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer : I, of course, own no rights to House M.D. or any of its characters. This derivative work was created solely for enjoyment and is not connected to, or endorsed by, the show's creator, writers, or copyright holders.
> 
> "Almost Perfect" is my take on what I think would have been a more believable departure for Cuddy, if she had to leave. I apologise in advance to Huddy fans looking for something entirely light and fluffy. I'm a fan of Huddy, myself, but when writing, I gravitate towards "partial" fix-its and the bittersweet, which is what this story is. So, if you're not in the mood for something that deals with life and death, and delves into a bit of darkness, you may prefer to pass. But I promise it's not all doom and gloom. There are smiles and lighter themes, as well, and I don't think the ending will disappoint.
> 
> The story follows a canon divergent plotline which spans the final eight episodes of season 7. Canon events and cases form a backdrop to the new material. The actual time frame has been altered to fit the storyline's pacing. Chapter titles come from the episode titles. 
> 
> One noteworthy change which is not explained within the scope of the story is that in this "universe" Taub never returned to the team, while Cameron remained after the incident with the African dictator. I'm planning to write a brief tie-in at some point which properly explores that.

8 March, 2011

Her eyes roll beneath their lids as the anaesthesia wears off. The words are circling my mind, making their way to my lips, but they're not the right ones. The truth is easy, but delivering it to her isn't. It has to be cushioned. It has to be coated with some flavour of sweetener that's supposed to prove I care.

“House?” She lifts her head from the pillow and reaches for my hand.

I offer it. Her fingers are clammy. The shapes passing outside the room, visible through the gaps in the blinds, pull my focus. But not really. More like give me something to face instead of her eyes probing mine for an answer.

“What is it?” she asks.

“I'm sorry,” is all I can force out, shifting the rosewood cane beside my chair. “I was wrong.”

She pulls herself up in bed and stares unblinking, lines formed between her brows.

I almost brought the jar in to show her. Why would I do that? Maybe because if it were me, I'd want to see a chunk of what was spreading through my body. But normal people wouldn't.

“How bad?” Her voice wavers.

“Wilson will tell you.”

“I'd rather hear it from you.”

It must be the part of her that's my girlfriend making her say that. Definitely not the Cuddy who's my boss.

“No, you wouldn't.”

Her features tighten. She's unrelenting.

“Stage four renal cell carcinoma. It's already metastasised to your lungs.”

A heavy breath pushes out of her as her eyes glisten. She clenches my hand the same way her fear clenches me, wrapping itself around me.

I glance to the door. The case is over. No patient to pull me away. No beeper to go off, no phone to ring, no team member to burst in with news.

That doesn't stop me from wishing.

“I should've...” I tap my cane against the floor with the hand she isn't clutching. “I should've supported you. I shouldn't have dismissed your concerns.”

“What's important...” A tear rolls down. “...is that you're here for me now.”

Am I? Every neuron firing in my brain screams for me to get out of here as fast as possible, to hide in my office, or even the clinic–maybe it would be good to find some idiot to ridicule. Not because I don't love her, but because I do.

* * *

12 March

It's been four days. Cuddy's checked herself out of the hospital, but not to go home, to go back to work. She's pretending it'll all go away. I want to criticize her, but that would be hypocrisy. And I hate hypocrisy more.

I push open the door to my empty office and limp to my chair. Walking's getting harder. The pain gnaws from my thigh, shooting up to my hip and all the way down to my ankle. I've barely slept. Maybe two hours last night, between the racing thoughts and never-ending stabbing in my leg.

I drop the case folder to my desk, try to force myself to scan over it again, but I can't. My hand goes to my jacket pocket and gropes the all-too-familiar cylindrical shape tucked within. I shouldn't. I know that.

Just one more.

The door swings open as the pill slides down my throat and the bottle back into my pocket.

Chase and Cameron come in, staring in that annoying, patronizing way people tend to do when they think you're falling apart. It's not the Vicodin. They didn't see.

“That a case?” Chase asks.

“Well, it's definitely not naked pictures of your grandmother.”

Foreman and Masters are next. At least they're not trying to swaddle me in a blanket with their eyes like Cameron is.

“I'm fine.”

“Okay,” Chase says.

Cameron opens her mouth.

I cut her off. “I assume everyone knows. Yes, Cuddy has cancer. Your concerned looks aren't necessary or helpful.”

“You can't be fine.” Cameron steps up beside me.

“The main tumour's been removed. Wilson's working on the rest. We're not oncologists. Let's focus on the case.”

“The woman you love has just been diagnosed with metastatic cancer.” Cameron touches my arm.

I tighten the grip on my cane and shift away from her.

“You can't possibly be thinking about working right now.”

“Yeah, why don't you go and be with her?” Chase grabs the case folder from my desk. “We can handle this.”

“Firstly, I _was_ with her. And secondly, are you sure about that?”

“Yeah, I'm pretty sure we can, actually.”

“Look, you two might as well drop it,” Foreman says, going for the door to the adjacent room. “It's no use arguing with him. He says he's okay, nothing we can do will change his mind. Even if it's a load of crap.”

“Nice to know someone here isn't distracted by what we can't do anything about.”

Chase opens the folder and reads for a moment. “Patient has a ruptured diaphragm, cracked sternum, broken nose, and partial hearing loss.”

“I'm going to make a wild guess here,” I say, “and assume it might have something to do with a bull jumping on him.

* * *

Wilson looks up from a stack of papers as I walk in. “You're working a case?”

“Bullfighter. Basically a walking pile of metal plates, rods, and surgical pins. Can't do MRIs, X-rays are useless.”

“Sounds interesting.”

“Not nearly as much as you might assume. I mean, whatever mental disorder causes a guy to enjoy being tossed around and stomped on by a two-thousand-pound animal is pretty interesting, but not my field.”

“You don't really want to be working.” He shuffles the papers, then stands them up and taps the bottom against the desk to tidy the stack. “Take some time off.”

“What for?” I lean against the wall. My cane isn't enough. “I'm not the one who's sick.”

He raises a brow at me. “House... I know this is affecting you. You don't need to pretend it's not.”

I glance at his movie posters, fighting off the urge to clutch my hollow thigh through my jeans. Can't let him see how much pain I'm in, or he'll start asking crap I don't want to talk about. Like the Vicodin. And the fact it's not helping.

Better off letting him have this instead. My eyes turn to the floor now. “How is she?”

“You're asking me?” he scoffs. “Aren't you talking at all?”

“That's not what I mean. The treatment.”

“No, I think it _is_ what you mean. You don't know how to handle this.”

I don't look at him, letting my fingers slide across my cane handle before digging into the wood, a substitute for my leg. “She's acting like nothing's wrong now.”

“Huh.”

It's so annoying when he does that. Between facing the balcony, I steal a glance of his brow raised at me. Then my eyes flick to the couch. Sitting would be so much easier right now. But I can't.

“You mean she's doing what you always do,” Wilson says. “Avoiding pain at all costs.”

“As opposed to everyone else in the world, who goes looking for pain like it's buried treasure?” I shift my weight and glare at him.

“Your leg is worse again, isn't it?”

Great. He's noticed. I force myself to straighten up. My thigh feels like a butcher's knife has been plunged into it. I wince. It's rending now, going up and down. My fingers squeeze around my cane so tightly it hurts, but not enough.

“You're not...” He takes a step out from behind his desk, then stops. “You're not thinking of using...?”

Sounds like he's almost afraid to ask.

My eyes meet his. “No.”

“If you need to talk, if there's anything I can do to—”

“No.” I cut him off. “I'm dealing with it.”

His brow raises with incredulity again, but he doesn't say anything. He goes back behind his desk and pulls out a scan. He brings it close. Lungs. Cuddy's. The white blots are a stark splatter.

“I've ordered a histology of the tumour we removed from her kidney to see exactly what we're dealing with,” he says. “Most likely it's clear-cell, which can be both good and bad. Hopefully it's a low grade. I've started her on pazopanib. Some of the latest clinical trials have been promising.”

“Promising?” I raise my cane a few inches and let it drop again. The resulting thud isn't nearly as satisfying as it should be. “I've seen some of those on your desk. Progression-free survival in the range of months. Maybe an overall survival of one or two years. Three if she's extremely lucky. Is that what you call promising?”

“Sadly, in this field, that's often the best we can hope for.” The scan crackles as it waves in his grasp. “I won't lie to you. I wish we'd caught this sooner. We don't have a lot of options at this point. But I'm going to do everything I can.”

“We're better off cutting them out.”

“And leave her with more holes than lung tissue? It's too extensive.”

A lump lodges in my throat. It won't go down even with a hard swallow. I want to argue, to throw out ideas. But it would only serve to briefly redirect my consciousness from what's bubbling to the surface.

He's right. Unless we remove over half of both lungs, more surgery is out.

* * *

I'm in my office, at my desk, cane pressed against my forehead when the team return to tell me there's nothing wrong with the patient's inner ear. It's got to be his brain, but there's no way to see his brain, and he's got blood in his sputum. The next theory is a salivary gland tumour or a GI bleed. I send them to scope his GI tract and get a parotid biopsy.

Their footsteps become distant in the hall. The tearing at my thigh deepens. My hand finds its way into my jacket pocket, pulls out the bottle. The lid comes off with a satisfying pop. A pill rolls into my palm. I raise it, stare at it.

Just one more. No big deal.

It slides down my throat, I stand up, and for a moment I acknowledge it, what's happening. What I'm allowing to happen. I'm not an idiot. Or maybe I am.

Now I push it away, like the chair back under my desk.

* * *

I limp into Cuddy's office. She's bent halfway over her desk, shoving something into a drawer. With one of her usual form-fitting skirts and low-cut sweaters, the view's nice, but that's not why I've stopped a few feet from the door. She freezes in place and our eyes lock.

Everything is like it always is. This could be one of the last times. My leg wrenches without moving. Maybe it's not only my leg.

No. That's something stupid Wilson would suggest. And he'd be wrong.

“Wilson said you're working a case.” Cuddy straightens up and smooths her skirt.

“Also that I should be holding your hand, instead. But you're going back to work too, apparently.”

I move towards her, dragging my bad leg. She meets me halfway.

“I want you with me... but I'm not going to deceive myself. I know how hard this is for you.” She grabs my hand. “If you need to solve a puzzle... if it'll help you cope...” She brushes my skin with her fingers, stays for a moment, then lets go and heads for the door.

“Giving up just like that?” I follow.

“Of course not.” Her hand pauses at the doorknob. “And that's not what I mean. I'm just being realistic.”

“Interesting. When you had no actual proof you were sick, you needed me, but now... now that you know, you're trying to tell me you're okay without me?”

She looks at me for a few seconds before opening the door. “No. It's just I know you. I know how your brain works. I don't expect you to be clinging to me every minute of every day.”

“And I've got things to do too,” she adds.

Things to do. Pointless things that won't matter. It's a defence mechanism. The question is, is it compensation for being unable to deal with her diagnosis, or compensation for being with someone like me?

We start out of the office.

“You'd prefer it, though. If I hung around.” My leg catches. Instinct takes over and both hands clutch at the pain through my jeans as my cane clatters to the floor. I lurch forwards, about to fall to my knees.

Cuddy lands against me. I thought she was further ahead now, but her arms are steadying me. “Are you all right?”

A few nurses stare. She picks up my cane and passes it to me.

“How long has your leg been like this?”

I can't resist. “I don't know. Probably ever since it was butchered and half the muscle was carved out.”

“No,” she says, eyes narrowing. “You know what I mean.”

“The past few days.”

She stares for a moment. “Why don't we go home?”

“Really?” Sarcasm flows before I can stop it. “But what about all those important things you've got to do?”

I shouldn't be talking like this. Not now. But I have to.

She sighs. “Come on. Let's soak your leg. I'll give you a massage.”

* * *

The warm water envelopes my body and dulls the sensation of thigh tissue being shredded and wrenched about under my skin. Every time Cuddy's fingers sink into the muscle and places where muscle _should_ be, pain sears through. I flinch and tighten, then it all eases a bit.

It's ridiculous if I allow myself to think about it. She's tending to me like I'm the one who's dying. Her lungs are tumour-ridden and to look at her now, sitting in the bath in front of me, kneading my leg, you wouldn't even know she's sick.

My ringtone interrupts the rhythmic lapping of the bathwater with her movements. She smiles slightly. Surprised she can do that.

It's the team calling to tell me the patient's sclerae have turned yellow and X-rays show a mass on his liver that's being obscured by the conductive metal rod in his ribs. They argue about a potential tape worm or a detached cyst, then mention the possibility of an infection. The next step would be a lumbar puncture, which is a risk because recent skull fractures mean there could be increased ICP and his brain could herniate.

“Ventricular puncture would work,” I say between grunts.

“Where are you?” Cameron asks.

Chase focuses on the patient. “You think sticking a needle directly into his brain would be less dangerous than sticking it in his spine?”

“Maybe. I'm trying to get you to hang up. We're naked over here.”

“Naked?” Masters sounds uncomfortable.

Cuddy reaches and presses the button for speaker phone. “He's getting a leg massage. Nothing else.”

“Is that all?” I give her an exaggerated frown.

“Okay.... we'll call back after the procedure.”

I hang up and put the phone back on the table beside the bath. “So... you're perfectly fine with that course of action? No reservations about drilling the guy's skull for probably no reason?”

“I trust you know what you're doing.” She digs her fingers into my thigh again. I tense up. “So you'd better hope it's not for no reason.”

The ambience returns to quiet splashing. And I'm left with thoughts. Thoughts of the situation. How long is she going to pretend she's fine? How long will I pretend the same? How long before it all crumbles?

“When are you going to tell Julia and your mom?” I ask after awhile.

“Soon.” Her eyes cloud and glisten.

 _Thud. Thud._ Something bangs on the door. “Mom! Mommy!” Rachel calls from the other side in a drawn out voice.

“Oh, she must have woken up from her nap.” Cuddy lifts from the water and wraps a towel around herself. “Just a moment, sweetie.”

* * *

I trade ridiculous faces and stuck out tongues with Rachel over bowls of spaghetti, Cuddy smiling weakly at us between more glum looks, when the team call again.

“Stinky feet can point to diabetes, athlete's foot, or gangrene,” I say to them.

Cuddy dabs some tomato sauce from her lips and frowns.

“Ewww!” Rachel giggles.

“Pick one.”

“Uh, none,” Foreman says. “None of those cause bloody sputum or disappearing masses.”

“Do you have stinky feet?” Rachel twirls some noodles around her fork.

“No.” I grab my cane from where it's been hooked on the back of my chair and extend it under the table towards her. “Do you?”

“Fungal infection can cause ulceration between the toes,” Cameron offers, “and bleeding could be from recurring abscesses that appear to be recurring masses.”

“No!” Rachel squirms as I brush her feet.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!” She laughs harder.

Cuddy's expression lightens, watching. Normally, she'd be complaining about such commotion over a meal. She wants to teach Rachel proper manners.

“Symptoms in the head or feet mean the infection would have to be in the heart or the brain,” I tell the team between tickling. “I say we start by looking in the heart, because looking at his brain with a metal plate is problematic.”

“So's MRI'ing his heart,” comes Master's voice. “He's got a seven centimetre conductive metal rod holding his rib together. It'll rip him in two.”

“No, it'll just _feel_ like it's ripping him in two, which is much better.” I pull my cane back and let Rachel recover.

“Ripping who in two?” She straightens up.

“The patient,” I say, holding the phone away.

“Patient? Why's he patient?” She sticks her fork into a meatball and wiggles it back and forth. “Isn't it good being patient?”

“Honey, don't play with your food,” Cuddy scolds.

“Patients are what we call sick people who have to stay in the hospital and take medicine so they can get all better.”

“Ohhh... but I thought patience was when you wait really good.”

“It's that too,” I say. “Two different words.”

“Who's he talking to?” Masters asks softly, probably thinking I can't hear her.

“Probably his, erm...” Chase pauses.

“Rachel, Cuddy's daughter,” Cameron says.

“My, aren't we nosy?” I blurt for Masters' benefit.

“S-sorry.”

“We could minimize the damage by injecting ice water into his abdominal cavity,” Chase says.

“Do that, then.” I hang up and tuck my cell phone into my pocket.

“You've got sauce all over, honey.” Cuddy takes a napkin and wipes Rachel's mouth and cheek, then glances at me. “I'm almost afraid to ask.”

* * *

13 March

Coughing jolts me from sleep. The sun glares through the crack in the curtains and makes the clock digits hard to read. It's just past nine. Must've finally crashed. I drag myself to a sitting position against the headboard. Cuddy is knelt over the toilet, visible through the open master bathroom door. Oh. Not coughing. Side effect of the pazopanib.

“Didn't Wilson give you Zofran?”

She goes to the sink, runs water and splashes her face before answering. “Yeah. Didn't help this time.”

My phone buzzes by the alarm clock. I kick off the blanket and grab it. It's the team.

“The images were normal,” Masters reports.

Cuddy comes out of the bathroom, dark circles drooping under her eyes. The colour of her whole face is a shade off.

“If the infection's not in his heart, gotta be in his brain,” I say, watching her sit down beside me. “Do a CT scan.” She's normally at work by now.

“We can't,” Foreman says. “He has a titanium plate and a bunch of screws. Or did you forget?”

“No. Get rid of them.”

Cuddy opens the drawer of the bedside table, rummages, pushes a sublingual tablet from its pack and pops it in her mouth. She leans back, pressing her eyelids.

“His skull has multiple hairline fractures,” he argues. “Removing the metal plate would be like removing half an eggshell without cracking the rest of it.”

“And not removing the plate will be like leaving the egg out to rot.”

Cuddy clamps her lips, hand half raising to her mouth, expression asking if I had to be so vivid.

I hold the phone to my chest. “Sorry.”

“It's not logical,” Masters adds, speaker back at my ear.

“House is right,” Chase says. “We have to do something.”

“Thanks for your continued support, Dr Brown-Nose.”

He doesn't remark, but I can imagine his eye-rolling.

“We can't cut off the top of his head based on a few symptoms that disappear whenever we try to test for them.”

“And you're sure you're not just saying that 'cause you've got a crush on the guy?”

“No! I mean—I don't have a crush on him.”

“Robert,” Cameron scolds. “It's not nice to tease her.”

“Oh, is this junior high? I didn't realise time could move in reverse. Maybe _that's_ why vinyl's coming back.”

There's a brief biting of tongues before the jab prompts a more relevant contribution from Cameron. “What if the one symptom that hasn't disappeared was never actually there?”

Interesting. “Any delays when he answers questions?” I ask. “Maybe he doesn't have partial hearing loss. He's missing moments.”

“Um... he reported having something like a complex partial seizure during a bull ride,” Masters chimes in again. “Said it hasn't happened since, but what if he's wrong? What if the infection in his brain is causing it to happen all the time?”

“The EEG didn't show any sign of seizure activity,” Foreman says.

I hold the phone away again. “Feeling any better?” I ask Cuddy.

“A little.”

“Just because it's _like_ a seizure,” I say into the phone, “doesn't mean it _is_ a seizure.”

* * *

“Surgery is still a possibility.” I burst into the hospital room with no regard for the little bald kid of indeterminate gender lying in the bed, or the parents nearby, only Wilson's consoling profile clear in my focus. Sadly, that distinction is lost within seconds.

“W—wait.” The stammering father interjects. He blinks rapidly. “I thought the tumour was inoperable.”

Wilson flashes me his 'what's wrong with you?' look. “It... um, it is.”

The mother gasps, hand over her mouth. Her husband rubs her shoulder.

“This isn't about you,” I say.

Their faces warp with a mix of confusion and disgust.

“I'm sorry. You'll have to excuse me for a minute.” Wilson sets his folder on the nearby cart. “I apologise for my colleague's total lack of sensitivity.”

He ducks from the room with me.

“Thanks for that. Now I have to finish explaining to devastated parents that their child is, in fact, terminal and probably won't be around in five months.”

“Oh, come on. They already knew that. How many sad little dying kids actually make it to their twentieth birthday?”

“That's not the point.” He sighs, glancing at the nurse rolling a cart past us. “I assume you're talking about Cuddy.”

“We just need to shrink the tumours.”

“Oh.” His eyes refocus on me. “Is that all?”

Yeah, that sounds stupid and over-simplified. His arched brow doesn't tell me anything I didn't already know.

“We should start her on high-dose interleukin-2.”

“Because, apparently, I wrote her a prescription for candy.”

“It's still got a better overall response rate than the TKIs.”

He tilts his head, thinking before answering. “Not necessarily. Pazopanib, sorafenib, and sunitib, all have a good chance of generating a response. And this is her choice. I ran her through the options. She wanted an oral route.”

My mouth opens, though the words aren't even clear yet. It doesn't matter. Before I can utter a syllable, the team loom into view.

They report that the CT is clean, there's no infection in the patient's brain. That leaves us with no choice but to blow up his heart. Needless to say, the idea doesn't go over well with any of them. Wilson eyes me with disbelief before returning to his own patient. He wants nothing to do with it.

The team bicker with me to little avail before their inevitable surrender to the only option. They've been looking the wrong way. It's an imperfection we're after. We need to pressure his aorta to the point of ripping, so we can find it and repair it.

* * *

The surgical team below prepare for the unorthodox procedure. Cuddy's reflection surfaces in the glass pane. Oh, here we go. I brace myself for the barrage of all the hundreds of reasons why this is unethical and she won't allow it.

“Let me guess, I should call off the surgery?” I raise my cane, ready it towards the glass, even though I've got no intention of following through with striking.

She stares solemnly, then answers. “No.”

What the hell does that mean?

“You're actually saying 'yes' to rupturing a patient's aorta?”

“You're doing what you think is right.” She watches the scalpel sink into the patient's chest. “I'm not going to argue.”

Something swims through my veins besides blood. It's not relief. My gaze, too, fixes on the surgical team below. Coordinated movements flow with almost hypnotic precision, offering an attractive diversion from racing thoughts.

I allow myself the respite of avoidance until red gushes past their gloves and motions turn frantic. Their problem. Not mine. My problem is on this side of the glass. My facial muscles tighten, casting harshness towards her. “Where's the logic in that?” I ask, finally.

She looks confused. Maybe I waited too long for that to be in context. Or she's only feigning ignorance so she doesn't have to answer.

“You allow a ridiculously dangerous procedure, no questions asked, because I feel like it's the right thing to do, but you're not prepared to accept advice regarding _your_ case, are you?”

She hesitates. “Why? What do you think I should do?” she asks in a tone not as open to input as the question suggests.

“Drop the pazopanib. Start on high-dose interleukin-2.”

“So, trade a newer treatment for an older one.”

“Newer's not always better. It's got a longer track record.”

“Of failure.”

“With a chance of complete cure,” I say. “What else can boast that at this stage?”

“Wilson's already gone over it with me. It's unlikely.”

“Either way, there's a significant chance the lung metastases will shrink enough to surgically remove.”

“Chance.” She sighs, glancing to the surgeons hurrying to clamp the tear. “And they might do that with the pazopanib, anyway.”

A blood-drenched, gloved thumb sticks up. “House! We've got it!” Chase calls.

I give him a nod. What's normally a surge of dopamine is hollow, nothing more than an empty answer to push away a question.

* * *

14 March

I roll the over-sized tennis ball across my desk. Puzzle solved, there was no point in coming in today, unless I plan to spend it in the clinic examining oozing genitals and swollen haemorrhoids. Should have stayed at home playing video games. And the sad part is Cuddy wouldn't have argued. She's too busy struggling to keep her usual pace. The strain is clear, like a rickety, dry-rotted plank trying to support an entire roof.

I recline in my chair, thumbing over the pill bottle in my pocket. It rattles as it shifts. Still almost full.

Wilson bursts in.

I flinch, pull out my hand, sit up straight.

“I've got the results,” he says, clasping a folder at his side.

“And?”

“It's clear-cell, of course, but...” He lets out a deep breath, closes his eyes for a moment. “Grade 3 with greater than fifty-percent sarcomatoid features.”

In other words, more bad news.

He sets the folder on my desk and I pore over the purplish photos of the cell culture, a mess of splotchy tangles with dense spatters of near black. The texture evokes the mould infested foam lining under the old carpet of my first apartment.

“I've already told Cuddy,” he says.

And suddenly, those oozing genitals and swollen haemorrhoids seem almost appealing. Ugh, wrong word. No, it doesn't matter. I'd honestly rather be wrist deep in some random guy's ass right about now.

*****


	2. Fall From Grace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> House tries to distract himself from increasing leg pain and Cuddy's refusal to bend to his desired course of treatment, while Cuddy struggles with unpleasant side-effects from the cancer drug.

22 March (One Week Later)

We discuss a 23-year-old homeless guy with burn injuries and the desire to lie about his name, which would have been diagnostically more boring than watching a cat lick its own ass, if not for the fact he'd claimed his burning flesh smelled like licorice and the ER antiseptics, like blueberry muffins. Chase and Foreman go to search the park where he was found, while Cameron and Masters are sent to give him prednisone and perform an odour ID test to identify a possible neurological cause.

It's been too long now. I've tip-toed for the past week, letting Cuddy digest the news without saying much. It's taken every bit of will I've got, to hold back, to support her, to deal with the pain. And I don't want to count the Vicodin.

A final indistinct word flows from her to the nurse who hustles by me on my way in.

“This is stupid,” I say. “You can't keep going on like this.”

Cuddy rolls her chair back. With the look she hurls, I might as well have thrown something at her. “Going on like what?”

“You should let us start you on the interleukin-2.”

“We've already been through this.” Her features relax as she shuffles through paperwork. Probably more a metaphor, a physical representation of her search for the next excuse. “It's dangerous.”

“In the '90s maybe. There are advanced protocols now.”

“I'd be bed-ridden and miserable for at least a week at a time.”

“Right. 'Cause the pazopanib's a picnic.” I squeeze my cane handle. “You'll be bed-ridden and miserable within the year, anyway. Permanently.”

Her focus settles on me, her hands freezing with a stack of papers held above her desk. “It doesn't matter. I need to keep working as long as I can.”

“Because pencil pushing and strolls through the clinic to make sure all the runny noses are being properly wiped is worth forgoing a potential cure.”

“I knew you'd do this.”

“This way, you've got a year or two. And that's being generous. ” I step closer. “You wanna do that to Rachel? You're ready to leave her without doing everything you possibly can?”

She slams the papers down and stands from her chair. “Don't bring Rachel into this. You're not going to use her to manipulate me.”

The words are acid on my tongue, burning too much to swallow. They have to come out. “Then you're a crap mom.” My nails dig into the rosewood handle and the cane raises on instinct, sweeps across her desk. Papers flap. Clutter thuds to the carpet.

Her jaw drops in a moment of stasis, a moment I ask myself if I had to do that. I did. The last errant page floats down. Her brows tighten, hands curling into fists.“You're such an ass.”

“If you're accepting you'll be dead before she learns to read, you should go home and be with her now instead of wasting time here.” I motion to the mess on the floor. “This crap doesn't matter. You know it doesn't.”

“How like you.” She snarls, tears welling in her eyes.

Another pause. The seconds drag. A twinge of regret stabs me in the stomach. It creeps out, low. “I'm sorry.”

“Are you?”

“Yes... but I'm also right.” I lean my cane forwards and then back, wanting to approach her, wanting to do something to reverse this. But I don't know how.

The door swings open behind me.

It's the team. They take a moment to say anything, eyeing the pile of clutter on the floor and Cuddy's discomposure alternatively. She flicks her tears and tries to look unbothered.

“Gastrointestinal bleeding,” Chase says.

“And his name is Danny Jennings,” Cameron adds.

“We found some vials in his backpack. He said they were vitamins A and B12. And surprisingly he was telling the truth.”

“He also enjoys vitamin H.” Foreman gives a smug look. “The kid's a junkie.”

“Tox screens were negative for drug use,” Masters chimes in.

“His hair wasn't. I had it tested.”

Cuddy kneels and starts scooping up the crap on the carpet. She doesn't say anything, but her eyes tell me she wants us to take this discussion out of her office.

I don't want the argument to end like this. Without winning. Without a conclusion of any sort. I'm not giving up, but maybe it's better to leave her for now. She's more likely to change her mind if I give her a while to stew.

“He was a heavy user sometime in the last five months,” Foreman says, the team glancing at Cuddy between waiting for any reaction from me.

Cameron takes a step backwards.“We can leave if you two are in the middle of something.”

“No,” I say, meeting Cuddy's gaze a final time before turning towards the door. I'm right. She'll realise that soon.

We discuss the case on the way back to my office. If the patient has been snorting heroin, he could have caused the dysosmia himself. Chase thinks Hypervitaminosis A could have caused the bleeding in his GI tract. Foreman doesn't buy unconnected symptoms. I mention that since he's been sleeping on a bed of dog poop, it's entirely possible he's got six different symptoms for six different reasons. Masters suggests the bleed could have been caused by a GI obstruction. I tell the team to give him tocopherol and zinc for excess vitamin A, and x-ray his abdomen to check for an obstruction.

* * *

“I'm so sorry to have to give you this kind of news.” Wilson raises from his chair, looking across to a middle-aged woman as I barge into the office.

“Tell her she's being an idiot.” I tap my cane against the wall.

The woman cranes around to stare at me with a sour expression.

“Don't worry. He's not talking about you.” Wilson pats her arm with a placid smile, then hardens towards me. “Yes, because that's the best way to support your girlfriend in this crisis.”

“She won't listen to me. Use that gift of yours. The same one you used to convince this woman that a radical mastectomy is the best shot for her stage 3 breast cancer.”

The woman clutches her purse tight to her chest and scrunches her features just as tightly. “Excuse me.” She turns to Wilson. “Who is this man and how does he know about my diagnosis?”

“Lucky guess,” I say.

“I'm sorry Mrs Vurwater.”

She stands up and slips her shoulder under the strap of her handbag.“You're not sharing my confidential information, are you?”

“No, I can assure you that hasn't happened.” Wilson soothes her with diplomatic motions, then reaches to shake her hand. “Come back on Wednesday for your consult and then we'll see about setting a date for the surgery. We'll go over more details, then. How does that sound?”

She nods and withdraws, all the while flinging slicing glances my way.

The door doesn't latch behind her, so I use my cane.

“We've already been over this.” Wilson returns to his seat. “High-dose IL-2 isn't by any means a likely cure. You realise that's only a small percentage of patients.”

I limp to the couch and plop down. He arches a brow, analysing what it means for me to do that. I don't care right now. “You'd rather we do nothing but wait for the cancer to spread?”

He looks at the wall, then back at me, sighing. “She wants to stay on the pazopanib. And...” He hesitates, like he's about to admit to wearing adult diapers. “There have been anecdotal reports that tyrosine-kinase inhibitors prior to IL-2 can raise the risk of cardiac toxicity. She'd have to be off the pazopanib for at least three months to be completely safe.”

How idiotic. I force a scoff. “Oh, what a bright idea that was. Did you tell her that before she started popping them like Tic-Tacs?”

“Yeah. It was her choice.”

“So, you want her to die.”

“House... you're being ridiculous. Of course I don't.” He presses his eyelids. “It's just that she's my friend too... and I can't force her to do something she doesn't want to do.”

“I know. Because respecting a friend's wishes will mean so much when they're dead.” I squeeze my cane between my knees, sliding it up and down to take my mind off the grinding in my thigh. “Better she hates you and lives.”

“Me or you?” He squints. “Are you trying to use me to gauge whether it's worth making her hate you to force her into this?”

Dust particles shimmer in the sunlight filtering through the blinds. Watching them drift to the floor is preferable to watching his eyes bore through me. I let it out low and gravelly. “Yes.”

Silence passes between us, punctuated only by shuffles in the hall and distant dings of the elevator.

“I don't know what to do.” I start tapping my cane to the floor again.

“The fact you're admitting this is...” His chair creaks. “It's healthy.”

My gaze flashes to him now, narrow. “Is it?” I pull the empty bottle of Vicodin from my pocket and slam it on the desk.

He leans further back and his mouth falls open. “Does Cuddy know?”

I don't answer as he takes the bottle and reads the label.

“Of course she doesn't,” he says. “You should tell her.”

“The pain's worse again.”

“Understandable.”

“That's it?”

“Your girlfriend has cancer. You find emotions and intimacy uncomfortable. You don't share your fears openly. You're bottling it all up. The repressed strain is causing physical symptoms, making your leg hurt more.”

“If I wanted a psychoanalysis, I'd check myself back into Mayfield. But, then again, maybe you'd make a better psychiatrist than an oncologist. Most of your patients end up dead.”

A particularly loud breath hisses out of him. “You wanted my opinion. Don't pretend you didn't.”

“No, I wanted your help.”

He looks taken aback. “Of course, if there's anything I can do.”

“You can convince Cuddy to get the treatment.”

“Anything except _that_.” He pulls out a drawer, slaps his prescription pad on the desk, stops a moment as if pondering several poor options. His eyes flick to the pill bottle. “You should tell her.” He presses down the pen, scribbles something and rips the page off. “If you don't, it's only going to make everything worse.”

I don't say anything as he stands, closes the space between us, shoves the paper at me. More Vicodin.

Without another word, he heads for the door. It's lunchtime.

“What? No lecture?”

He pauses and faces me. “Dealing with something like this... only someone who's delusional would believe you'd be able to hold it together without relapsing.”

* * *

I push through the office door to find Chase and Cameron gaping at a scan. An ultrasound. Not what I'd requested.

“So, he's pregnant?” I ask, heading to my desk. “That could count as an obstruction, I suppose.”

“It's not the patient's.” Cameron pulls an x-ray out from behind the ultrasound and offers it to me.

“We've found out what caused the bleed. He had thirteen pieces of bone in his digestive tract,” Chase says. “We thought pica, but he says he ate them on a dare from a guy who works at a restaurant.”

“More interestingly, you two didn't think you should tell me you're having a baby.”

Chase stuffs his hands in his lab coat pockets. “It wasn't a secret, or anything.”

“We just...” Cameron shifts as I brush by her. “We didn't think it was a good time.”

“Good time for what?” Foreman comes in

“Tiny little baby shoes.” I sit in my chair.

He raises his brows, then studies the ultrasound in Cameron's hand as he approaches. “Yours?”

“Yeah.” She smiles.

“Congratulations.” Grinning, he tosses his arms around her.

“Aww, what a touching scene,” I say. “I should have brought my camera.”

Foreman scowls and they ignore me. Masters joins us just in time to catch the end of his handshake with Chase. “Did I miss something?”

“We're having a baby,” Cameron says.

“Oh, uh, congratulations.” Masters fidgets for a moment.

“Thanks.”

Somewhere between Masters relaying that the patient is now experiencing tunnel vision, and them debating again whether or not he's been snorting heroin, which would account for the dysosmia, I lose track of the differential.

Instead, my ears hone in on the splatting against the exterior window. Rain. It lands against the glass with a hypnotic tapping. The droplets snake from top to bottom.

Like the tears on her cheeks.

My mind snaps back to the bustling hospital cafeteria, where I'd grabbed a cold-cut and a bag of chips and was ready to sit down when I saw Cuddy across the room at a table with her mom and sister. Their fingers were tangled together beside a couple of coffees, their chests heaving with sobs.

A sensation like a chill, but not cold, ran down my spine and gripped my ribs. My heart rate elevated, respiration became uneven and laboured. The sub and barbecue chips on my tray didn't smell appealing any more.

I recoiled, fled into the corridor as fast as my limp would allow. It was an animal instinct. A fear response. I couldn't go to her. I ducked into the empty stairwell, managed to ease myself onto a step, and tried to recover my appetite.

“House?” Foreman's voice returns me to the office. “Are you even listening?”

The team are in a semi-circle in front of my desk, all painted in varying shades of confusion and exasperation.

“I'll start when you decide what the symptoms are and give me some theories,” I say after a moment.

Paying little mind to where the words are coming from, I filter the important bits. Western equine encephalitis. No. That's out. No fever.

Foster Kennedy Syndrome. A meningioma or plasmacytoma pressing on his olfactory nerves, affecting sense of smell, growing and now pressing on his optic nerve, causing the tunnel vision. Possible.

I tell them to MRI his head and find it.

When they're down the hall, my fingers are unconsciously brushing the empty pill bottle in my pocket. I haven't filled the prescription yet. Wilson's words ring in my head. They're annoying.

And wrong.

* * *

I stop in front of Cuddy's place, pull off my helmet to be blasted by the downpour. Shouldn't have used the bike today. There's another car parked out front. One I recognise. A sliver of dread adds to what's already there.

She must have been feeling run down again. When I went to her office, she was gone. Her secretary said she'd gone home. I don't completely know why I'm here. Didn't want to listen to Wilson. But something kept me from the pharmacy. Something made me come here instead.

I climb off the bike and hobble through the pelting rain to the door. It's still early evening, so no need to pull out my key.

My footsteps are lighter than usual in the foyer. I catch a glimpse of Cuddy in the living room. She and Julia are on the couch with red eyes and a box of tissues on the coffee table in front of them. Before I can consider my plan of action, something bumps my leg.

Dressed in dinosaur print pyjamas and a bowl of dry Apple Jacks in hand, Rachel glowers up at me. “You're all wet,” she says, like it's the most wonderful and surprising thing ever.

I look at the puddles forming below me, then back at her. My gaze flits to the living room again. They haven't noticed me. Cuddy pulls another tissue from the box and dries her eyelids.

“Mommy's really sad,” Rachel says. “She's been crying with Aunt Julia ever since she came home.” She pops an Apple Jack in her mouth and chomps, spraying crumbs to the glossy wood, losing a few larger chunks that join water droplets and swell into tiny edible sponges.

After a moment, she plops to the floor, then slides along until her back is against the wall. She holds the bowl towards me “Want some?”

I ease myself down beside her, letting my cane lie next to me. The tension releases from my leg and my soaked jeans cling to my skin. Maybe a quick blast of sugar will distract me. I grab a handful of cereal and cram it all into my mouth at once.

Rachel's eyes blow up. “You can fit all that?”

“Yup,” I manage, then show her the half-chewed mess.

“Wow.” She grins.

Now there are two layers of crunching.

“How... can we... make Mommy... happy again?” she sputters out between chewing.

I swallow. “I don't think we can.”

“Why not?” Her eyes twinkle at me with an innocence I've never appreciated before. She's lucky she doesn't know anything. It's so easy being her age.

“Because... grown-ups are complicated and stupid.” I push in a few more pieces of cereal. “And the things grown-ups have to deal with...” I grind it to mush, then swallow. “...are even more complicated and stupid.”

She scrunches her face in puzzlement as she takes another bite, gears whirring in her head.

My phone buzzes.

“Who's that?”

“My little ducklings, “ I say, answering it.

“Aww... duckies are cute.”

“Patient has two dark spots in the parietal cortex,” Masters relays. “They're not tumours. They could be some kind of injury or inborn defect.”

Crumbs rolling down her shirt, Rachel holds the bowl towards me again. I don't hesitate to grab some more Apple Jacks and chew into the phone.

“He was clinically dead for several seconds during an OD,” Cameron says.

_Crunch. Crunch. Crunch._

She's pretending not to hear. “The... dark spots could be brain damage... from oxygen starvation.”

_Crunch. Crunch. Crunch._

“Are you eating something?” Foreman blurts.

“Oh, is that against some rule I'm unaware of?”

He doesn't humour me and chooses to argue with Cameron. “It's not from oxygen starvation. I've seen MRIs like that in schizophrenics.”

“I wanna duckie,” Rachel mumbles with her mouth full, "but Mommy says no.”

“Schizophrenia doesn't explain why his blood pressure skyrocketed and he threw up in the MRI,” Chase says.

“Panic attack. He's claustrophobic,” Foreman says. “He was fine once—”

“Did she also say duckies make poopies everywhere?”

“Umm... no.”

“Apparently, you're dealing with something more important.” Foreman sounds annoyed. “I guess we called at a bad time.”

“No,” I say. “It's just that I must have missed the part where you explained why you're calling me about this at all.”

I don't need to see their faces to imagine their confusion on the other end.

“You wanted to be kept informed, didn't you?” Masters asks.

“Informed, yes. Listening to your meaningless arguments without a clear theory, no.”

Finally they're all quiet.

“If he's schizophrenic,” I say, “there's nothing we can do.”

“Skittlefrenic? What's that?”

I move the phone away from my mouth and lean closer to Rachel. “A bad head boo-boo that makes you see and hear things that aren't real.”

“Ohhh.” She puts the empty cereal bowl down beside her. “That's scary.”

“It is,” I say, more honest than I normally find myself. Flashes of my worst nights at Mayfield, tossing and turning in agony, both physical and mental, swirl through my mind.

“We have to help him,” Cameron says, bringing me back to the conversation. “We can't just send him back out—”

“By all means, invite him to live with you, then.” I hang up.

Footsteps approach. “What's all this?” Cuddy's voice sounds congested.

She and Julia stand above us.

“Oh, Rachel, sweetie, you've got crumbs all over.” Cuddy picks up the empty bowl and brushes Rachel's shirt off. “I thought you were eating at the table.”

I want to question the importance of something so trivial as crumbs on the floor when she has cancer, but I hold it in.

“House came in,” Rachel says, standing up. In her mind that's reason enough.

“I can see that.” Cuddy's eyes turn harsher when she looks at me. I doubt it's just the mess.

“Do you want me to stay?” Julia fiddles with her purse strap on her shoulder. I can't help but notice the glances my way, which are some blend of confusion and condescension.

“No, that's all right,” Cuddy says. “You should go home to the kids.”

“All right. But call me whenever, okay?”

They hug, then Julia kisses Rachel on the cheek.

I still haven't said anything, or moved, by the time Julia has finished her goodbyes and gone out the door.

“You should get changed.” Cuddy glances down at me again. “Put on something dry.”

I start to pick myself up. It's harder than I thought it would be. Halfway up, searing pain shoots through my leg and it gives out. Cuddy grabs my arm and helps me, passes me my cane.

“Are you okay?” Rachel asks beside me.

“Great,” I lie, my eyes meeting with Cuddy's as I steady myself.

“Honey, why don't you go and watch your cartoons?”

“Hm... okay.” She pitter-patters off into the living room.

“I'm sorry,” I force out.

“I know... but—”

I cut her off. “I'm not handling this.” My voice falters. “I can't.”

She stares now, fixed on my words.

But words aren't as easy as showing her. I pull the empty Vicodin bottle from my pocket.

She takes it and her face changes from shock to disappointment, to something I can't read.

I grip my cane tightly in preparation to take a step. “Should I go?”

She grabs my hand. “No.”

Her arms wrap around me. I put mine around her. I'm going over all the possibilities in my head, what she must be thinking. She loves me. She's forgiving my words, my falling back to Vicodin. But nothing has changed.

I withdraw, drag out the new script now and give it to her. She squints at it. “Did you forge this?”

“Not this one,” I say. “It was Wilson's idea.” What a cheap way to diminish blame. Hypocrisy. If he hadn't written it, I'd have only done it myself again. But the fact he did... it's probably why I hesitated to fill it. Probably why I've told Cuddy. Why I'm admitting it all to her now. Reverse psychology at its best.

She passes the script back. “Why didn't you fill it?”

“Didn't think you'd be okay with that.”

“Of course I'm not,” she blurts.

My shoulders sag, eyes rolling from her to the opposite wall.

“But... you need it,” she says after a moment. My focus returns to her. “I understand.”

I stare instead of replying. Permission to go back on Vicodin full time. All my problems are solved.

Are they?

Well, that would be stupid to suggest. I clutch my leg. But the pain is the pressing issue. It's what matters right now.

* * *

23 March

Footsteps by the couch make me flinch. The sun is coming up. Must've fallen asleep for an hour or two.

“You didn't have to get out of bed.” Cuddy tightens the belt of her robe.

“Didn't want to wake you.”

“The Vicodin isn't helping?”

I glance to the bottle on the coffee table. Already taken more than I should have. The pain's a faint grinding. I'm not even sure that's why I couldn't sleep. “Better than ibuprofen.”

She doesn't have to say it. Her concerned frown is enough. It's hard to believe it's not more effective after being clean for a year.

She lies alongside me, tucking herself under my arm without a word.

“No yoga this morning?” I ask, my jaw vibrating against the back of her head. I imagine her wince. That was stupid. Of course, not. She's achy, winded, sleeping longer. Her routine is changing even if she's pretending it's not.

“Sorry.”

“It's okay,” she answers after a few seconds.

The warmth of her body against mine almost makes me forget it all. It'd be nice if it could last forever. But like everything, it's only temporary. I know that as I drift from consciousness.

* * *

The repetition of _MMMBop_ tears me from a better place. My ringtone for the team.

Cuddy gets up as I grab the phone from the coffee table. It's 7:53.

“I should check on Rachel and get dressed.” She leaves the room.

“Danny Jennings is dead,” Chase says.

“And when did this happen?”

“Three months ago, apparently.”

“Are we still talking about schizophrenia kid?”

“It's not schizophrenia,” Cameron says.

“You may have guessed, but we didn't go home last night.” Chase sighs. “We were about to, when we got a call from a nurse that the patient's arm felt like it was on fire. He's on clozapine. If it's a delusion he should be getting better.”

“That leaves genetic conditions,” Cameron adds. “Testing all of them will take weeks, so we tried to narrow it down by finding his parents.”

“I got in touch with your buddy Lucas and had him see what he could dig up on Danny Jennings,” Chase continues. “Turns out, he was in rehab, then died of a drug overdose three months ago. So, we still have no idea who our patient is.”

“Impressive. You accomplished all that instead of sleeping.” I sit up and stretch my shoulders. “If only my night had been so productive.”

“Unfortunately, we're still no closer to figuring out what's wrong with him,” Cameron says. “He won't tell us his name. Even if it means he's going to die. He claims he deserves it.”

“Well, it might be time to break out the interrogation equipment.”

“I hope you're not serious.”

* * *

“I didn't think you'd be back until late.” Cuddy sags on the couch, turning as I walk in. Her complexion is more yellow than usual. No, it's probably just the orange of the setting sun pouring in. Rachel plays with toys on the rug below.

“Case is over. Early-onset Parkinson's.” I say. “No sense in hanging around.”

“Come and play.” Rachel hops up and grabs my hand, tugging.

“Oh, honey,” she says, haggard, scratching a reddened spot on her arm. “Don't pester House.”

“How long have you been itchy?” I ask.

“It's nothing. Just that new soap.”

Could be. One whiff seemed equivalent to having the perfume section of the shopping mall dropped on my head.

“Please.” Rachel tugs at me again.

“All right.” I ease myself down on the rug with her. “What have we got here?”

There's an assortment of cars and little people, along with a t-rex. I can work with this. “So this guy,” I say, lifting the fireman, “is an alcoholic. Can you say alcoholic?”

“Acko...ackoholic.”

“House...!” Cuddy hisses. “What are you doing?”

Rachel laughs. Cuddy releases a laboured breath and closes her eyes.

“He doesn't have any cash on him—firefighting doesn't pay well—but he really needs his fix. So, he goes to rob the liquor store over here.” I hop him over to the coffee table leg. “Problem is... he didn't realise the lady, here,” I say, moving the policewoman over. “Has a gun under the register.”

Rachel's eyes pop, watching me point the policewoman at the fireman.

“And she shoots him right in the gut. _Bang._ ” I knock over the fireman, causing Rachel to jump.

Cuddy moans. “What are you teaching her?”

“Nothing she won't learn on TV.”

“Exactly why I don't want her watching whatever's on.” Cuddy lies down across the cushions.

“It's fun Mommy!”

“So, then he's gushing all over the floor.” My hands fly out in exaggeration. “S _plooosh!_ ”

“Eww!”

“The lady has to call the ambulance.” I wheel it over, making a siren sound. The top of the ambulance has to suffice for putting him inside. “They drive him to the hospital.” I make the siren sound again. “But then...”

Rachel hangs on my every word.

“A hungry t-rex shows up.” Under my direction, the dinosaur stomps up and flips over the ambulance. The fireman clatters beside it.

“Oh no.”

Cuddy strains to lift her head from the sofa arm. Before I can continue, my phone goes off.

“It's not Parkinson's. Patient's heart is dilated and failing,” Chase reports. “At the rate it's happening, he's going to need a new one soon.”

“And no way we're getting him on the transplant list,” Foreman says.

“What are we missing?” Cameron asks.

“Everything. We know nothing about this kid,” I say. “Except that he's gotten worse since we admitted him.”

Rachel plods over to her mom, nudges her.

“Why?” I prompt the team.

“What sweetie?” Cuddy lifts herself.

“Can I have a cookie?" Rachel asks.

“Finish your veggies first.” She motions to the plate on the coffee table with one half-chewed, and three untouched broccoli florets.

“Most of our patients tend to do that, if we don't cure them,” Foreman says.

“Okay.” Rachel groans and plops to the rug with the plate, watching me as she starts to chow down.

“Yeah, but why so fast?” I ask. “He had dysosmia for a few months. Never even came in to have it treated. He's just a random burn victim.”

Cuddy drags herself from the couch.

“You okay?” I hold the phone to my chest and jump up.

“Yeah.” She brushes my hand. “Just feeling a little nauseous again. I'll be right back.” She heads out.

“We get him,” I continue into the phone. “Boom, he's got tunnel vision, peripheral polyneuropathy, cerebellar ataxia, and now cardiomyopathy.”

 _Chomp. Chomp._ Rachel chews with her mouth open.

“What's different here from, say, living in a filthy state park?”

“You think cleanliness is making him sick?” Masters asks.

“Allergic reaction?” Cameron offers.

“We treated him with Vicodin, clozapine, and one bag of levodopa,” Foreman says.

 _Chomp. Chomp._ Rachel stares with a unique combination of obliviousness and curiosity.

“His condition started deteriorating before that,” I say, gaze drifting from her eyes to her mouth, to the green goop visible inside whenever she opens it. “What's he been eating?”

“Um, I don't know,” Masters says.

“Then find out.”

“All right.”

“What are you thinking?” Cameron asks.

“Most of the meals are vegetarian. Wouldn't be surprised if he's been eating healthy because he can.”

* * *

Adult Refsum disease. The patient's body can't process the phytanic acid and chlorophyll of green vegetables. Turned out his new, healthy diet was killing him. Another puzzle solved. And again only a vague glimmer of satisfaction as I stare at the ceiling in the dark, Cuddy asleep beside me.

The door opens. Little footsteps. “Mommy,” Rachel whimpers.

She groans, rousing partway. I sit up. “What is it?” I ask, hushed. “Mommy's sleeping.”

She hangs her head, at the brink of tears.

“Did you have a bad dream?”

She nods.

“Come here.” I motion between us, leading her to climb up.

Cuddy stirs despite my efforts. She rolls over, eyes coming open. “Rachel, sweetie, what's wrong?”

“She had a nightmare,” I say.

“It's okay. Mommy's here.” Cuddy lets her nuzzle close and strokes her hair.

I lie back down, like a plank, a strange observer. It's got nothing to do with me. I'm an outsider. And there's an odd comfort in that.

Then she latches onto my arm, tiny fingers digging into my skin. What's up with that? I'm frozen for a moment, then I slide closer. She buries her head against me now. Cuddy keeps petting her hair, awe visible through the shadows.

And what does this mean? How the hell am I supposed to deal with it?

* * *


	3. The Dig

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Remix of S7E18 "The Dig", focused entirely on House and Thirteen]  
> Overwhelmed, House leaves on a road trip. He latches onto a new puzzle; he needs to know why Thirteen was in prison. In a similar effort to avoid her own wounds, Thirteen tries to get to the bottom of what House is running away from.

24 March

Paper pressed to the kitchen counter, I scrawl a note, then slap it on the fridge. Dim, bluish light creeps through the window. Her alarm used to go off in about thirty minutes. Not now.

We didn't talk. We just stayed there like that the rest of the night, Rachel curled up between us. I didn't sleep more than two or three broken hours. It wasn't the gnawing in my leg, but gnawing in my mind.

I can't stay. That thought kept repeating for hours as the clock digits burned through my eyes in the dark. Watching Cuddy's side rise and fall peacefully, Rachel's breaths warm against my arm, I told myself she's better off without me. They both are. There's a sharper twinge that the Vicodin should've dulled. I can't be what they need.

* * *

City turns to suburbs, to fields and shopping strips, and scattered gas stations. The hours roll by along with the asphalt. The wind against the sides of the car and the groaning of the engine numb my mind. It's easier to not think. Easier to be alone.

The corrections facility comes into view. I suck down a couple of Vicodin as Thirteen exits the gate in a brown leather jacket, her hair tossed about by the wind. She makes her way over. This should be a good distraction.

I pop open the door for her. She climbs in without a word. Surprise isn't written on her face, but it must be in there somewhere.

The first few miles are just road noises. I figure I can wait a little. It's like a fine wine, or a delicious slice of pie, and deserves to be savoured.

“What did you do?” I finally ask.

She glances to me, half-disinterested. Or feigning it. “You figured out I was in jail, but you don't know why?”

“I've been busy.” I let my shoe down a bit more on the gas pedal. “Excessive prescribing.”

“Not that busy,” she corrects.

Maybe not, but not for lack of trying.

“I know that you plead _down_ to excessive prescribing, but the question was what did you do?”

She leans towards her window, to the highway coasting by. I'm already five miles over the speed limit, yet neighbouring cars continue to barrel past us. Amazing how little attention people actually pay to traffic laws when cops aren't around.

Speaking of which, someone is cutting into our lane without using their turn signal. I ease off the gas, sliding back enough to avoid a potential collision.

 _MMMBop._ The team.

“Make it fast. I'm driving,” I answer. “I don't want to end up in jail like...”

She casts a glance at me. Her eyes are stern when they're fixed on me, but something else glistens under the surface when they drift in the direction of the windshield.

I stop myself. “...a person should, who used their phone illegally while driving.”

“36-year-old male with haemoptysis, headaches, chills, and chest pain,” Masters relays.

“Where are you?” Chase asks.

“On my way to the greater Schenectady chili cook-off and spud gun competition.”

“At a time like this?” I don't need to be in my office to see the depressing, pouty frowns of Cameron.

Thirteen leans my way, all hints of a deeply buried vulnerability vanishing. 'A time like what?' she wants to ask, but doesn't.

“I can't believe you're doing this to Cuddy.”

“Really? Do you even know him?” Foreman jabs.

“Yeah, it's selfish, but completely expected,” Chase says, “and none of our business. It's her job to spank him. Or Wilson's.”

“Hey.” I check the mirrors, adjusting the phone against my cheek. “Stop fantasizing about me and Wilson.”

A smile creeps across Thirteen's lips.

Masters, the junior, and odd one out, sticks to the case. “ER ruled out bronchitis, pneumonia, and lung cancer.”

“So,” I say, “diagnosis boring. It's epistaxis. A nosebleed. Blood runs into his lungs, he coughs it back up, flu explains the rest of the symptoms.”

A state trooper looms into view behind us. This call needs to hurry up. “Going once, going twice...”

“Toxic exposure to ammonia or sulphites...” Masters begins. Damn her. “...can traumatise the lungs, cause neuralgias or fevers. Fits better because of his radiating chest pain.”

“Sold. To Masters,” I tack on hurriedly. “Do a home search for toxins. Draw cultures for bacteria and fungi.”

Just in time. The state trooper's car comes up beside us as my phone goes safely back into my pocket.

“Cuddy?” Thirteen cocks her head at me. “You two are involved? Interesting.”

“That's what you got from that? Just as likely that Wilson and I finally got together.”

She smirks. “Thanks for not saying anything.” Her face straightens at the road ahead. "I just need some time to...”

“I didn't do it for you.” I rub my leg with my right hand, left steadying the steering wheel. “Some puzzles are just too good to share.”

“This is my exit.”

The sign flies by as quickly as it arrived. She sighs. “Chili?" she asks after a moment.

“I hate chili,” I say. “Love spud guns.”

* * *

My phone vibrates in my pocket, breaking the droning monotony of wind against the car. We haven't spoken in about an hour.

“Gonna answer that?” she prods.

I draw the phone out, glance at the screen. Wilson. Not in the mood. I shove it back in my pocket.

“What's this really all about House? As convincing as I find your deep devotion to vegetable trajectory—”

“First of all, it's a tuber,” I say. “And you're just jealous because your potato-related plans are of the serving up fries variety.” I glance at her, then the rig lumbering along in front of us. “You did time. Means your licence is suspended.”

 _Tick. Tick._ I slide into the left lane.

“Which means your leave of absence is definitely indefinite.” Gas pedal to the floor board, we lurch forwards with a grumble. “What exactly are you going back to?”

The rig's front end drifts away in the rear view mirror.

 _Tick. Tick._ Back into the right lane.

“I'd only have to serve up fries until the medical board hearing.” She pushes her hair behind her ear. “What's more interesting is what Cameron meant earlier.”

I ignore that addition. “I stand corrected. You obviously have a rich, full life waiting for you. I'll slow down the car and you can roll out.”

Her lips curve upwards, maybe at my remark, maybe not. “What could be going on with Cuddy that now is a bad time?”

My fingers constrict around the steering wheel. “Rachel's got a little problem with bed-wetting.”

She just listens.

“Yeah, I told her not to let the girl drink a jug of water before bed. Didn't listen. So, no surprise it's a yellow version of _Kill Bill_ by morning. The sheets, the mattress, the floor...” I roll my eyes over to Thirteen, making what should be a particularly vivid expression. “... _Cuddy_.”

Her face doesn't shift. Not even to smile.

“I didn't want to be the next victim of Rachel's overactive bladder... and here we are. Apparently, that's not being supportive, I guess.”

“Right, that totally makes sense,” Thirteen says finally. “I don't even have a change of clothes.”

* * *

On the bench outside the changing booths, I slip a Vicodin in my mouth. “Okay, here's what I got.” It goes down with a hard swallow and I tuck the bottle away. “One, you were in jail for six months, but you were gone for about a year, which means that you weren't arrested right away.”

Rustling comes from Thirteen's booth. “Why didn't your answer your phone the second time? Was that Cuddy?” She acts as if she hasn't heard me.

That's okay because I'm doing the same. “Two, you enjoy being known as a number. You don't want people to know the real you, because you think the real you is weak.”

“You had a fight. And like a five-year-old, you don't know how to apologise, so you'd rather make an excuse to drive off for a few days.”

She emerges in fresh pair of jeans and something black that's halfway between a blouse and a tank top. “This interrogation thing is getting annoying.” She cuts me with her eyes.

“Studies have shown that un-annoying interrogation is 50% less effective.” I press the handle of my cane against my chin. “And since you're annoyed, I'm already winning. Because I'm having the time of my life.”

Her glare crumbles into a dispassionate smile. “Why are you so determined to bring me to this competition? Why don't you bring Wilson?”

“Wilson thinks it's stupid.”

“ _I_ think it's stupid.” She ducks back into the booth with two more tops. “You sure it's not just because you brought a bunch of hookers to Cuddy's place and you're avoiding Wilson because you know he'll be nagging you until your ears bleed?”

Hmm. Interesting theory. I choke back a smile.

“Junior year of high school you placed fourth in a West Virginia all-county science fair. Your project, clean combustion.”

“Yeah,” she calls over the curtain. “I also wore a training bra. Things have changed.”

“Not that much.” Ouch. Yeah, I'm _that_ good. I purse my lips against the curve of my cane handle. “I've been going to this contest for four years. For four years, I've come second to a piss-ant named Harold Lam.”

Thirteen emerges again in a different top. “This is serious?” She studies me for a moment.

“ _Second_.” I tap my cane to the floor.

“Okay.” She puts on her jacket. “I can help you, but I'm going to need to make a personal stop along the way.”

“What kind of stop?”

“Personal. Did I not mention that?”

 _Buzz_. There's an annoying vibration at my side again. I click it off before Thirteen can notice.

* * *

“Okay, turn right.” Thirteen leans towards her window, hand poised to grip the door handle, as if she's bracing herself to jump out.

I do as she says. We roll along the suburban street.

“You were writing bogus prescriptions for medical marijuana.” I offer yet another theory. “Please say no, because you have to be an idiot to actually screw that up.”

“No,” she says, “I mean, I was, but I didn't get caught.”

“I have to admit. You have one of the best game faces I've ever seen. Also one of the best game bodies.”

She gives me a sideways glance. “Your turn. You were running random metal objects through the MRI on a bet and Cuddy found out. Nothing like blowing up expensive hospital property to blow up your relationship.”

I scrunch my face in exaggerated shock. “How childish do you think I am?”

“Pull over.” She motions to the house we're approaching.

I bring the car to a stop at the kerb. “Hang on a second.” She clears her throat and with a click of the door latch, she's out and on her way up the path.

She pounds the front door. It's loud enough to make out from here. A man answers. She leans in close, snarls something to him. He can't react. Her knee slams into his groin, topples him to the porch.

Wow. Knew she could hold her own, but didn't expect that. I pop two more Vicodin before she turns around and stomps back.

“Didn't know you were a Jehovah's Witness,” I say as she straps on her seatbelt.

“Yeah, the weak lost faith when Christ didn't return in '75, but I still believe.”

“You're really not gonna tell me what just happened?” I shift the car out of park and steer away from the kerb. The street loops back around onto the highway ahead, so we can go straight. My foot sinks into the gas pedal.

“I don't know about you,” she says, “but I'm starving.”

“Kicking people in the crotch really burns the calories, huh? Someone should turn that into a hip new diet plan.”

She doesn't remark. Apparently, she's not in the mood to play the game now.

* * *

Low voices and clattering dishes fill the diner and form a layer over a song on the kitchen radio, too muffled to make out. We're at a window table in the far corner. Traffic swishes by.

“You know...” Thirteen lifts her fork to her mouth. “I'm actually kind of hurt that you don't know what I did. I'm not worth bribing a court official or hacking into police records?” She takes a bite of steak.

“Where's the fun in that?” I sip my Coke through the straw.

“You could've at least hired that detective. I would've said 'Cuddy's weird boyfriend', but I guess that's you now.”

“Mm-hmm.” I take another sip.

“Interesting taste.”

“A little over-cooked?” I prod my last chunk of steak.

Her lip curls and reveals a bit of her teeth as her eyes narrow. “Don't play coy. _Cuddy_.” She twirls a fry in ketchup. “First him...” She pops it in her mouth.

“Lucas,” I say.

She nods while she finishes chewing. “And now you,” she says. “She must have a thing for immature, unreliable guys.”

“Nice. Good to see prison hasn't broken you entirely.” I suck a ketchup slathered fry of my own down.

The bell on the door rings as a couple walk in. They're holding hands. The father is carrying a little girl who must be about two. The mother leaves them to make their order.

The girl's face twists up and turns bright red. Baby tantrums. My favourite. She wails, tears and snot streaming down. Her father bounces her and says things that can't be heard over the other noises. He strokes her cheek. And like magic, she looks him in the eye and stops as quickly as she'd begun.

I couldn't be like that. Even if my life depended on it. Even if I wanted to. For her.

“I killed a man.” Thirteen's words are like a pin prick. I turn back reflexively, knowing something in my face has betrayed the concealment of surprise for a split-second.

* * *

It's been about half an hour since the diner. My leg's worse again. I knead it as discreetly as I can manage, other hand on the wheel. It'd actually be better to swap and let Thirteen drive, but she'd only see that as an invitation to poke further.

“You're awfully quiet,” she remarks suddenly.

“Sorry. That's just how I get around people who have recently killed a man.”

“It wasn't...” She looks away. “You know, I've had a pretty rough year. Do you think maybe we could just give this whole thing a rest?”

“ _You_ broke the silence. Way to act like you don't want to talk about it.” I glance at her between focusing on the highway stretching ahead. “You killed a man. But you plead out to drugs.” I make another guess. “Hit-and-run under the influence. Guy you kneed in the groin was your date, who dropped a dime on you.”

“Wrong again,” she says. “You yelled at Rachel.”

“That's it?”

She studies me, as if that will help come up with a better theory. “You were supposed to watch her, but you were too engrossed in your guitar or piano to notice. She wandered out into the street, got hit and ended up in the ER. She might not make it. You're running away to avoid dealing with that idea and what it means for you and Cuddy.”

I suck my lips into my mouth, letting it all absorb for a moment. “Morbid. What did Rachel ever do to you?”

“Hey, you're the one who started this game.” Her eyes slice across me. “I'd rather we drop it, but if you really wanna keep going...”

* * *

25 March

We make a stop at a hardware store because apparently my gun sucks. She can't find any half-inch drill bits and I inform her that Harold will probably hit on her because he wants everything I have. She keeps combing the aisles and suggests, full of sarcasm, that maybe she should just sleep with him so he'll throw the contest. I jokingly ask her if she'd really do that for me. After I tell her how the contest is judged, she decides to go for raw power.

As we gather the supplies we can find, I make another guess. That she met a guy at a club, brought him home, and he OD'd. The guy she left writhing on his porch was the dealer who sold her the faulty goods. No reaction. Another miss.

We arrive at the field in time for practise. Another ignored call from Wilson. Thirteen fiddles with the fuel valve. Harold shows up. I try to intimidate him, but it doesn't go so well. He sees through my bluff that Thirteen is famed Russian physicist Olga Petrovich, who as it turns out is 72.

I say she's Olga's granddaughter come to kick his ass. And she's killed a guy. That doesn't have quite the effect I was going for because her test shot veers off and busts out someone's windshield.

* * *

I sit on one of the two single beds in the orange light of the rustic motel room. “I hope you like rhubarb.” I glance to the box on the end table beside me. “We're celebrating.”

“We're going rogue.” Thirteen paces the carpet, musing. “We rip out the combustion valve, replace it with disks. With enough pressure, it should blow out at maximum velocity.”

“Turning the spud into spudnik,” I say.

“What do we use for disks?”

“Well, here's a hint. I actually hate rhubarb.”

“Pie tins. You're a genius.” She heads into the bathroom to change.

“You know... I'm a doctor. Any interest I have in the human body is purely clinical.”

“Yeah.” She comes back out in a t-shirt and sweats. “That line never works for me either.”

“That line _always_ works for you.” I watch her sit down on her bed. “So, what did you do?” I ask after a moment.

“No more guessing?”

“I need to know. I can make some phone calls, see if we can speed up your medical board hearing. In the meantime, no one could stop me from hiring an assistant.”

“What?” She raises a brow. “No swap? You know, I tell you mine, you tell me yours.”

I stare at the pie box, then the shaggy carpet.

“Didn't think so.” She pops open the box and grabs a slice, as if to show she's unconcerned.

“So, no deal?” I prod.

“No deal.” She takes a bite of pie. “Unless you change your mind and want to tell me what _you_ did.”

Great. I won't be getting any sleep tonight.

* * *

Sometime after what must be the hundredth time I've rolled to my other side, my ears catch a faint sniffling. She's sitting up in bed, facing the window, trembling in the shadows. Crying.

My fingers dig into the pillow, fighting the urge to slam it over my head to block her out. We were having fun. Or at least I thought we were. My jeans are draped over the footboard. I reach for them, grope for the bottle in the pocket, wriggle it out with a rattle.

The pill's on my tongue when Thirteen's voice springs on me. “You're back on Vicodin.” She manages to sound almost detached. “Is that why?”

I force the pill down, turn. Her features are shrouded in darkness. She must've wiped the tears, but I couldn't see them even if she hadn't. This is stupid. She's the one who's been caught in an awkward moment. But it feels like it's me.

“No.” I set the bottle on the bedside table. No sense in hiding it now. “Gonna tell me why you were crying?”

The mattress creaks as she shifts. “I... I wasn—” She drops her attempt at denial halfway through. “It's not important.”

“You're not the type to cry over anything that's not important.”

“Cuddy broke up with you because of the Vicodin,” she deflects, ignoring my prior answer about that.

“She knows.” I hang my jeans back over the footboard. “She didn't break up with me.”

Thirteen stays quiet. Either she believes me, or she doesn't, but isn't willing to prod any further. We're like that for what seems like a solid minute, deadlocked in the dark, before I lie flat on my back and she curls over on her side.

* * *

26 March

The sun glares on the field. Booms echo around us. The man on the PA says we'll be shooting for hang time next. Thirteen adjusts the aim of the spud gun, talking about the wind direction. She's confident we'll break 14 seconds.

I tuck my pill bottle away as she changes to a ramble about her childhood. So much easier popping them in plain view again. She mentions a fair her dad used to take her to. But she's slipped up. She said 'us'.

“Who's 'us'?” I ask.

“My mom and me.” She keeps fiddling with the spud gun.

“Your mom who had advanced stage Huntington's.” I lean in, attempting to get her attention. “You have a sibling that you've never mentioned. Why did you slip up now?”

She squints in the sunlight, not so much as glancing up. Her hair blows across her face, partly concealing her stern expression. “Not everything means something.”

She carries the gun to what must be a better spot. Or she just wants to avoid me. “We're gonna be up soon. I wanna check the pressure.”

I limp after her. “You don't wake up in the middle of the night to cry over a dead stranger. You don't confess to killing a man and then hide the details unless the details reveal more about you than the crime itself. You plead down to drugs.”

She's doing a great job pretending to be deaf, hands busying themselves with the spud gun.

“You've got a horrible genetic disease and a sibling who's suddenly on your mind.”

I can taste victory, though a voice somewhere in the depths of my mind warns me it might not be as sweet as I anticipate. I'm never good at listening to those sorts of things. Like a boulder rolling downhill, I can't stop now.

“You euthanised your brother,” I say, savouring the moment of reveal. “And that guy back at the house was the doctor who wouldn't help you cover it up.”

Her eyes meet mine, cold. No teasing glimmer. “The guy back at the house is my cellmate's boyfriend. He cheated on her when she was inside.”

The comfortable breeze still carries the smell of fresh pies and chili, and the cheerful calls of people in the distance, but the atmosphere has changed. Everything in her deliberate, yet shaken, movements speaks of attending a funeral rather than a light-hearted competition. The spud gun is a casket and she's carrying it to its place of burial.

It's all the proof I need, really, but I can never let it rest without verbal confirmation. “But I was right about everything else,” I press.

“Congratulations.” She pushes her hair out of her face, avoiding my gaze. “You win.” She puts down the gun again, this time spacing herself from it. She's giving up.

“He couldn't do it himself. He was—the disease had progressed too far. He was flailing. He didn't have any control over his own body.” Her striking eyes fill to the brim with tears she must be fighting hard to keep from spilling out. “He pretty much lost control of his mind too, but... every once in awhile, he would have a few seconds of lucidity.”

The wind hits a rough spell, tossing her hair about more violently. She ignores it. “He turned to me and he said, 'it's time.' I hooked up the IV. I used gloves. I knew they'd get me on the drugs, but they couldn't prove who pushed the plunger. I put in the needle, and he just...” She gulps. A tear escapes. “Got quiet. And it was over. And I was alone.”

She fingers away the wet on her cheek. “And one day, I will be that sick, and there will be no one there when it's time.” She finally meets my gaze. She's searching for something. Something that isn't there.

Or maybe she just doesn't see it.

She forces a bitter laugh. “I didn't expect compassion from you. I would have taken commiseration.” Her voice wavers, hands trembling at her sides. “Hell, I would have taken revulsion, any emotional engagement at all.”

Maybe it's pouring out from her like an explosion of infectious viral cells, whisked into my respiratory system, travelling up, crossing the blood-brain barrier, attacking the limbic section of my brain, causing illogical symptoms. Or maybe it's just the disgust when she looks at me.

I take a deep breath, my cane wobbling in my indecisive posture. “Cuddy has cancer.”

She stares at me like I'm topless and I have eight nipples.

The admission itself wasn't a big deal. Everyone else knows. Why not Thirteen? It's the way I've said it. With a note of undisguised desperation.

“Everything was fine until one morning she peed blood.” Spewing facts is easier. I can retain some level of impassiveness, fidgeting with my cane, letting my eyes flick away whenever it's too intense. “I dismissed it. Thought she was just being irrational because her mom had a recent health scare. Then the biopsy confirmed it.”

Thirteen watches in silence.

I squeeze my cane, swing it outwards, pushing the grass. “Renal cell carcinoma. Clear-cell with sarcomatoid features. It's already metastasised to her lungs. Too many tumours for surgery. Radiation and chemo are out, of course. And the drug Wilson's got her on makes high-dose IL-2 therapy riskier, even if she stops now.”

“Folks,” the man on the PA announces, “Chad Lockerbie just won first place in the chili cook-off.” An interjection that serves to contrast the gravity of our exchange. “Congratulations, Chad. That cocoa powder really did it.”

It's still only the two us, really. Everything in the background is unimportant. We're connected somehow in our disconnection. Close, yet distanced by more than the two feet between us.

I grip my bad leg at the thigh. I'll need to rest it soon.

“I'm sorry,” she finally says.

I turn towards the treeline. She walks off. The crunching of grass under hiking boots makes me flip around. It's Harold. Like there couldn't be a shittier time.

“Dumped in a field in Schenectady.” He smirks. “Ouch.” His head cocks in the direction of Thirteen. “You mind if I make a move? I know she's out of my league, but she's at a spud gun contest with the soon-to-be five-time runner-up, so she's probably got some self-esteem issues.

I grab the spud gun, aim it at his chest.

His hands fly up as he takes a few steps back. “You wouldn't.”

Oh, yes I would.

* * *

The police station door buzzes as I exit into the parking lot. Thirteen leans against the hood of the Dynasty.

“So?” she asks.

“Warning.” I close the distance between us with a jerking gait.

She straightens up. “They gave you a warning?”

“Well, it turns out our friend Harold felt up the sheriff's daughter last night at the potato mash mixer,” I say, turning around beside her and half resting the back of my legs against the grill. “So, sheriff's feeling kind of ambivalent.”

“You always get your way, don't you?”

“Not always.” The trees by the station rustle. “We didn't win.”

“Well, spud guns aren't everything.”

“The only chance I see is the IL-2... which she's refusing.”

Thirteen's expression is suddenly grave again.

“So, I'm just supposed to sit around while she waits to die like an idiot.”

“I misjudged you earlier,” she says. “I shouldn't have assumed you weren't feeling anything.”

“That's fine.” I pop a Vicodin, glancing between her watching me, and the clouds above. “It was a fair assumption.”

* * *

It's quiet back on the road. Neither of us seems to have anything to say. Or maybe too much, but no idea how to say it. It doesn't matter. We can't change anything. We're both screwed.

The sun dips below the horizon and my phone vibrates. Thirteen's glance questions. I check. It's not Wilson. The team again. Yeah, switched them to vibrate and started ignoring them too. Only Masters and Foreman wouldn't prod me about the obvious.

I wasn't interested in the case they found, but now... with the way things have turned out, there's a nagging itch. A craving. A need to know. I succumb against my better judgement. Thirteen watches with piqued curiosity.

“So? Anything interesting?” I click to speaker and set the phone on the seat, between my knees. No sense in getting a fine.

“House!” Cameron's voice is rife with exasperation. “Why haven't you been answering your phone?”

“Not important. What happened? Kill a patient?”

“No!”

“Patient's fine, well, um, the original one,” Masters says. “He and his wife both had Q fever. We've treated them for that, but she's not improving. We're running a hormone panel because—”

“Cuddy's in the hospital,” Cameron blurts.

Part of me has registered the real meaning of that statement, but I pretend I haven't. “Be a lot weirder if she weren't.”

“No, her liver almost failed.”

My fingers dig into the steering wheel. The tail lights in front blur out of focus. My lips are bars of lead. I can't force anything out.

“Acute hepatotoxicity brought on by the pazopanib. Luckily her nanny found her collapsed in the bathroom. She's stable now, but you should be here.”

This was happening under my nose. The nausea that didn't respond to Zofran. The itching. The hints of jaundice that evening. How the hell did I ignore it? Why?

“The patient,” I manage. “What's going on with her?”

“Really?” Chase asks, full of a disbelief that's undoubtedly plastered across everyone in the office.

“Yeah, spit it out.”

“Um... she's—she's had a myocardial infarction,” Masters stammers, uncertain which matter should take priority. “I think her fertility issues are another symptom that could help us—”

Cameron won't take no for an answer. “I want to help our patient too, but Cuddy—”

I click the phone off. It's not worth it.

Thirteen's pupils drill through me as patches of light wash over us followed by shadow. Her mouth drops open about a quarter of an inch, but nothing audible surfaces. My eyes flick back to the cars in front.

“Running doesn't work, you know,” she finally says.

“That's why we're in a car.”

She doesn't bother pressing and turns to look out her window.

* * *

We pull to a stop in front of Thirteen's apartment building. I don't know quite why she's remained silent, why she's resisted the urge to delve further into my reactions to the Cuddy situation.

“Home, sweet home. You owe me eighty-seven bucks for gas,” I rattle off, detached.

Our eyes lock for a moment. There's a mutual concern and respect between us. Something words would fail. I can't block what drifts into my mind. What she said earlier today in the field. How she's alone now. How she's got no one to help her, to do what she did for her brother. That's not true.

“I'll kill you,” I say. “When the time comes, if you want me to.”

She blinks longer than usual. I'm willing to bet that means 'thank you'.

“I'll do it now if you like. I think I've got a baseball bat in the back.”

She gets out and slams the car door shut. “I hope you're going to Cuddy.”

About time she meddled. I don't answer.

“I'll see you Monday.”

“Maybe,” I say. “Maybe not.”

She squints, analysing. Before she can question, I reverse the car and screech away.

* * *


	4. Last Temptation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> House tries one more time to avoid the issue at hand.

“Greg!” Mom calls.

I go downstairs to the source of her voice. They're at the dining table; Mom, Dad, an army buddy and his wife. There's turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce, and pumpkin pie. That, and the festive table cloth would suggest it's Thanksgiving.

“Come on, over here!” Mom smiles and motions to the empty chair beside Dad. “We're about to eat.”

I plod along, going through the motions.

“What took you so long? What were you doing?” Dad hisses when I sit down.

“Nothing.”

“As usual.” He spreads a cloth napkin across his lap while Mom carves the turkey.

The meal is typical, boring. Dad and his buddy laugh about army stories, Mom and the wife gossip about neighbours, people they know.

It's all routine until army buddy shovels in the cranberry sauce. His face turns as red as a baboon's ass. He coughs, tongue protruding, and reaches for his drink. Mom, Dad, and his wife's voices overlap to the extent it's impossible to discern the words, but I know they're asking what's wrong.

“He's choking!” Mom's voice finally stands out. “I'll call for an ambulance!” She hops up to grab the phone.

He rushes from his seat, into the open kitchen. His wife follows. He flurries to fill a glass with water, then gulps it dry.

“No, no,” he manages, stifling a final cough. “I'm all right.”

“What happened?” Mom sets down the phone.

“Was there some kind of hot spice in the cranberry sauce?”

“No, nothing like that.” Mom looks shocked and trades a glance with Dad, still beside me.

His rough hand grips my wrist. “What did you do?” he growls.

“Nothing,” I lie.

In a single motion, he jerks me from my chair. They all see, but don't do anything. He drags me into the study and slams the door.

“I'm only going to ask one more time.” He rips his belt off, dangling it in front of me.

“Cayenne pepper,” I say. “I mixed in a whole bottle.”

His scowl deepens. He casts his belt to the desk and shakes me by the shoulders. “What the hell were you thinking? Why do you always have to try to sabotage everything? What if you'd caused him to choke? What if he was allergic, or something? You have no respect for anyone. ”

_Buzz. Buzz._

“What's that noise?” I glance past him, around the bookshelves and desk.

“I don't hear anything. You're just trying to get out of this.” His fingers dig into me as he grabs his belt again.

_Buzz. Buzz. Buzz._

“There it is again.”

He lashes me across the wrist. The strike is hard enough to sting through my sleeve. As he pulls back for another swing, a black and yellow shape comes into focus, hovering above him. A bumblebee. It must have come through the window. But it couldn't have. It's November.

This isn't real. At least not all of it.

“You're pathetic,” comes a woman's voice. I'm in Dr Nolan's office. Amber sits in the chair across from mine. “You know why you won't answer it.”

“Answer what?”

_Buzz. Buzz._

There's a cellphone on the end table beside her chair.

“Coward,” she jeers.

“Corpse,” I snap, standing up.

“Oh, so typical. Running away.” Her voice bites me in the back as I go for the door. “Too bad you can't,” she says, my hand jarring the knob.

It's locked.

“No where to go.”

_Buzz. Buzz. Buzz._

“You're dead.” I lift my cane, bash it against the door. “This isn't real.”

“Maybe not, but sometimes that's not what's important.”

My pounding has no effect. On the door, that is. My cane snaps in two with a loud crack, the end clattering below. I'm left with a splintered chunk that cuts my hand. Blood drips from my palm to my wrist and splats on the floor.

“You're scared.”

I turn. “No, I'm not.”

“Spoken like a ten-year-old.” She crosses her legs, folding her hands together. She doesn't need to move to control the scene. “You know the saddest part is that what scares you most isn't even losing Cuddy, it's admitting you don't deserve her. That you don't deserve anyone.”

I clench the useless cane handle at my side. The wet spreads and keeps dripping.

“You're still broken... always broken.” Her glaring white teeth taunt me with every syllable.

“And you're still dead.”

“Wow. Way to beat that horse.” She scoffs.

I toss the scrap of cane and lurch towards her, my hand at my hollow thigh. Can't go fast. I'm a caterpillar inching along a branch. Each step is a strain, a shot of agony that might topple me. She delights in every second.

“Finally.” Amber sighs as I reach her. “What now?”

 _Buzz. Buzz._ The phone beside her vibrates again. She arches a brow at it. There's no name and the number is blurred.

I snatch it up, hurl it against the wall.

“That won't do much good, you know.”

 _Buzz. Buzz. Buzz._ Still going.

“The phone is fine,” she says. “You're the one who's broken.”

My fingers fly to the chair arms, sinking in, smearing blood on the upholstery before I know what I'm doing. It crashes onto its side easily, but Amber doesn't go with it. She's too quick.

She presses against me. I'm falling.

My body collides with the floor. Pain radiates from my head, my neck, my back.

“Broken,” she hisses again. “Broken, broken, broken.”

 _Buzz. Buzz._ Damn that phone. It's as annoying as her chanting.

I can't get up.

“You could've turned it off.” Her eyes flick to the phone. “You chose to put it on vibrate,” she says. “Why do you think that is?”

She kneels in front of me. “You wanted to hear it. Part of you wants to punish yourself.” She leans down until her hair brushes my cheek and her breaths heat my skin. “Part of you knows,” she whispers, “that your inability to deal with normal human emotions is causing you to sabotage yourself like you always do.”

Her words, like scalpels, seem to flay at me, deepening the sensation of every burning nerve.

_Buzz. Buzz. Buzz._

_Rattle. Clop._

She's gone. It all is.

I pull myself up from the pillow, glance to the alarm clock. I squint to make out the digits. 12:06. The thin, white curtains on the windows do almost nothing to dampen the sun's onslaught. My head's pounding. And I really need to pee.

I drag myself from the tangle of sheets and stumble across the unfamiliar room, past a scattering of empty liquor bottles, towards the bathroom.

Emptying my bladder is like passing a hundred tiny razor blades. I fight the urge to vomit, leaning over the sink. The cold water against my face helps a little. Colours dance behind my eyelids.

_Buzz. Buzz._

On the stagger back to bed, there it is. My phone. It must've vibrated off the nightstand. I don't care about that stupid dream. She's wrong. And I'm not answering it.

I throw myself onto the mattress again, stare at the ceiling.

_Buzz. Buzz. Buzz._

Checking in is a hazy image in my head, followed by a stream of drinking, stumbling, falling. Being swallowed up by chlorinated water. Tangling in the cover of a closed swimming pool. After that it's black. Why didn't I drown?

The Vicodin bottle is empty, but there's still a whiskey by the alarm clock. It's almost full. I grab it.

* * *

_Knock. Knock._

About time they show up. I drag myself from the bed to answer.

Not room service. Wilson lodges his hand between the frame and the door before I can slam it shut in his face.

Nice try. That's not going to stop me.

“Ow!” he shouts. “What's wrong with you?!”

“Should have used your foot.”

He keeps pushing. Annoyingly persistent, as usual. “Dammit, House, just open the door!”

Hot lightning streaks through my leg. It gives out. I stumble backwards and he forces in.

“What the hell were you thinking?” He's not talking about crushing his fingers.

I sag against the wall, feeling like a bear caught in a trap. “How did you find me?”

“Big hint. You probably shouldn't have used Cuddy's credit card to pay for the room.” His brows knit together in judgement. “It's bad enough you abandoned her for three days to go to some stupid potato gun thing.”

He steps closer. “You actually had the gall to take her credit card with you. Then, you hole up here for almost two days, refusing to answer your phone.”

Wait. Two days? “What day is it?”

“Monday.”

I've lost a day. “Don't remember Sunday,” I mutter.

He glances to the bottles strewn about by the bed. “Probably has something to do with the fact you've been trying to drink yourself into liver failure.”

“Liver failure,” I force a sloppy laugh. “Ironic, right?”

He scowls. A remark in bad taste, I guess. "What kind of ass does this?” His hands fly out from his sides, motioning to the mess.

“Me.”

“Apparently,” he scoffs, purely in disgust.

“What did you expect?” I arch away from the wall, stagger, then slam back against it.

“That you'd at least try not to take yet another dump on everyone who cares about you,” he says, fetching my phone from the carpet.

I sink to the floor. "She's wrong, you know.”

“Maybe so.” He comes back. “But if you cared, you'd support her anyway.”

“Not Cuddy,” I say. “Amber.”

His eyes pop. “You're seeing Amber?” He crouches to my level.

“She says I'm more afraid that I don't deserve anyone, than I am of losing her.”

He squints, like he's decrypting a foreign language.

“I'm not,” I blurt.

“You're still drunk.”

“That _was_ the intention.”

It's like a lightbulb has flashed in his head. “Oh, I don't believe it.” He stands.

“It all makes sense now.” He sticks a finger up at me, his lips parting in a bitter smile. “You _want_ her to break up with you. It's easier that way. If she doesn't love you, you can convince yourself you don't love her,” he says, “and then it won't hurt as much.”

I draw circles with my index finger along the handle of my cane as it lies horizontal beside me.“Gotta admit it's a good idea.”

“Like hell it is.” His voice takes on a harsh tone you almost never hear. He lets out a sigh and crouches again. This time he tosses my arm over his shoulder and drags me to my feet.

My chest heaves with a ragged laugh. “You're so in love with me it's disgusting.”

“Yeah, right,” he grunts out, starting us down the hall. “If this were just about you, I'd let you drown in your own sick.”

“Such lies.” I tap his knees with my cane, nearly tripping him. “Just keep telling yourself that.”

“Give me that.” He jerks the cane from my hand.

We wobble to the elevator. It's full of people. I don't care. “You've chosen me over every wife, every woman you've ever dated.”

“I'd tell you you're making me doubt my resolve,” he mutters, shifting in place. “But that's exactly what you want to hear.”

“This man loves me.” I throw my other arm around him and press my head against his chest.

He stiffens, but doesn't push me off. “I'm sorry. He's really drunk.”

“Not drunk enough.”

* * *

The sound of Hanson makes me peel my cheek from the car window. The glass has a wet spot. Oops. Guess I was drooling. “You turned it back on?”

“Yeah, right now really isn't the best time.” Wilson answers the phone instead of me as he navigates the hospital parking lot. “He's...um... fine, but...”

“No, no, put it on speaker.” I reach for my phone, him squirming to keep it out of reach. Pretty good multitasking.

The car stops. “Oh, all right I'm lying, he's drunk off his ass.” He unfastens his seatbelt.

I try to free myself from mine. “I'll talk to Cuddy if you put it on speaker.”

“Afraid you're going to do that regardless.”

“Not necesses... necessarily.” Damn clasp. Can't find the release.

Wilson clicks it for me and the belt whirs into its slot.

I seize the opening, grab my phone. “Hah. Got it.”

Instead of fighting me, he slides out of the car.

“So's... there a case?” I ask.

“House? Are you okay?” Cameron asks.

“Fine.” I watch Wilson circle to the front of the car. “Well, not fine as in _fine_ , but who really cares about that?”

“Our patient is a sixteen-year-old aspiring to be the youngest person to sail around the world,” Masters says. “And, um... today's my last day of rotation.”

“So?”

“Um... I...”

“She collapsed yesterday during a practise run,” Cameron interjects.

“We thought adrenal insufficiency,” Chase says, “so we were tracking her cortisol levels, had her on a treadmill to speed things up when her hand turned completely blue.”

The door pops open. Wilson goes for the phone, but I swat him away.

“Is Thirteen there?”

“Wait, you know she's back?” Foreman asks.

“Yeah, we shared a few motel rooms. Does that bother you?”

No response.

“She showed up this morning,” Cameron says. “Wouldn't tell us anything, just went to Wilson.”

“Must have been about you,” Chase adds, pausing for a moment. Probably waiting to see if I'll explain anything. Not gonna happen. Way funner to leave them puzzling over it all. “We put the patient on vasodilators, restored enough blood flow that she won't lose any fingers.”

“This is ridiculous. Come on.” Wilson starts to pull me out of the seat.

“I know you're enjoying all the groping,” I mutter, “but I'm not an invalid.”

“I don't know why you guys are bothering,” comes the condescending tone of Foreman through the speaker. “He's clearly too drunk to do this right now.”

“Still can out diagnose you, Dr Chocula...” The final syllable draws out with the bile that froths up my oesophagus. Wilson ducks out of the way as it spews from my mouth onto the asphalt in a yellowish-brown splutter.

I spit. He gives me a moment. “I feel better now.”-

“I'm sure you do.” He tears the phone from my hand and helps me over the puddle.

“Yes, that was him throwing up,” he says to the team. “You'll have to call back later.”

We slog across the parking lot that sparkles with leftover rainwater. The relief I felt a moment ago is gone. Every step causes my head to spin a little faster. I want to ask him what we're doing here if he doesn't want me working. Maybe Cuddy's still playing hospital babysitter.

I think a grunt comes out before the blackness closes in and my muscles go limp.

“Hey, that's not funny. Come on, I'm not carrying you.”

Wilson sounds far away even though it must be his body keeping me from falling to the pavement.

“House?”

* * *

The haze clears. Plastic footboard. Bracelet chafing my wrist. A line running into my vein from an IV stand. The pale knit blanket cocooning me is tinted orange by sunlight. Must've been out for several hours.

“You're an idiot,” Thirteen says from the chair by my bed.

“Wow, Wilson, the hair's great, but your boobs have really shrunk.”

A smile teases the corners of her lips, but stops there. "You were dehydrated. Drinking nothing but alcohol to the point of puking, for two days, tends to do that.”

“Afraid I wouldn't make it?”

“More like my medical board hearing isn't for another two weeks, which means I can't exactly do a lot.” She uncrosses her legs. “Is it fun testing the limits of your relationships?”

“Didn't realise you'd be so upset if I stood you up.”

“No, you know what I'm talking about.” She stands.

Right. There's a twinge of stark clarity. “Wait.” I jolt upwards, fighting against the constrictive blankets. “Weren't they monitoring her liver enzymes?”

“Yeah. The toxicity came on suddenly. AST and ALT were fine before that.” She watches me a moment longer, then takes a step towards the door. “If you're ready to be back on your feet, you should go and see her.”

Masters barges in before Thirteen can leave.

“I'm sorry. I know this isn't a good time, but I really need to talk to Dr House.”

“There might never be a good time.” I press the button to elevate the head of my bed.

“Okay.” Thirteen looks at me then back at Masters.

“Our patient, Kendall... she has lymphoid sarcoma. Her arm needs to be amputated, but her parents won't consent because it's not what she wants. She wants to be discharged so she can finish her sail. The cancer could spread before then. She could die.”

“Unfortunately, patients have a right to be stupid,” I say, irony stinging as the words sputter out. “Nothing we can do.”

Thirteen narrows her eyes at me. “Really?”

“Well, technically you could break the rules and force her somehow, but seeing as how that's not ethical...”

“I don't want her to die.”

“Then you've only got one option.”

Thirteen has no argument.

Masters shifts awkwardly, clutching a book at her side. “I can't.”

“So, colouring inside the lines is more important to you than saving this girl's life? Maybe it's good this was your last day.” Yeah, I remember her saying that. I wasn't _that_ drunk by that point. I stand and rip the IV from my arm.

Masters turns to leave. Thirteen goes with her. I can see them in the hall through the gaps in the blinds.

“What's that?” Thirteen motions to the book in Masters' hand.

“Oh, it's my log book.”

“Weren't you supposed to have turned that in hours ago?”

“Yeah, but I couldn't get my last LP.”

“Oh. I might be able to help with that.”

* * *

Cuddy's skin has no tinge of yellow now. She opens her mouth, then stops.

I take a few limps closer. “I know an apology won't change anything.”

“No, because you won't mean it.” Her fingers tighten around clumps of blanket. “Or even if you do, you'll just screw it up again. Like you always do.”

“Does this mean we're over?”

Her eyes coast across me as though she's hunting for something. “It should,” she says. “But no.”

I try not to allow any confusion to show on my face.

“I won't give you the satisfaction.”

“Wilson's talked to you, hasn't he?”

Her back arches, searching for a more comfortable position against the pillow.

“He's more twisted than I am.”

She doesn't say anything, but it's not hard to deduce her bewilderment.

“He won't persuade you to get the treatment, but he will persuade you to stay with a selfish, unstable, emotionally unavailable boyfriend. Just to make sure I don't get my way.”

I realise it sounds like I'm talking about two different people.

“He thinks you're running away because you love me,” she says. “I'm not even sure any more.” She bites her lip. “Do you?”

“If you have to ask—”

She interrupts. “Of course not.” A layer of mist diffuses over her eyes. “If you loved me, you wouldn't abandon me. I don't care how scared you are.”

“I won't watch you die.” My cane kicks out, preparing me for a step. I turn halfway towards the door. Something won't let me move.

“So, you're going to make me face it alone?”

She's not alone. She's got her mom, Julia, Rachel. She doesn't need me. I can't give her anything. I turn back.

She flicks a tear away. Another rolls down.

My eyes retreat to the dangling IV cord. She's right. I'm revolting.

“I've changed my mind,” she says. “Not that it makes much difference.”

I close the gap between us. “I'm sorry. I know it doesn't mean anything, but...” The lump in my throat won't go down. “I'm sorry.”

Her lips suck into her mouth as she closes her eyes for a moment, more streaks flowing across her face.

I clutch her hand, my stare substituting 'I love you'.

A cart with a defective wheel scrapes down the hall.

“I accept whatever you think is right.”

“ _You_ were.” Her words disintegrate into a sob and I pull her into my arms. Her body trembles against mine. “I'm ready to try the interleukin-2.”

Emotions are idiotic. Illogical. They cause people to make stupid decisions for stupid reasons. Now she wants to change her mind all because she had a serious side effect from one drug. And just like that, I'm getting my way. I should be relieved.

But I'm not.

It's like a river slamming against a dam. The pressure builds and builds. There's no release. I'm shuddering, but the tears won't come for me. “I want you to know... I won't leave again. No matter what happens.”

* * *

Wilson jots the prescription and offers it, but I don't raise my hand from kneading my leg. Standing is almost unbearable. But then again, so is sitting. Muscles tense and quivering under the strain, I lean against his desk. The corner digging in barely registers. “I need more.”

His brow lifts questioningly as he drops his elbow to rest on the surface in front of him, glancing between the script and me. “You went through sixty pills in five days.”

“Because Vicodin's not enough.” I tilt my cane forwards and let it clack against the desk. Repeatedly. Every collision causes Wilson's shoulders to tense.

“It used to be,” he says. “And if anything your tolerance should have decreased.”

“Makes sense.” I keep crashing the wood together, clench my eyes shut. “But it's not working any more.”

“Are you sure this isn't—”

“What?” I blurt, glaring at him. “All in my head?”

“Not all of it, no.” He rises from his chair. “How many times do we have to go over this?”

“As many times as it takes for you to stop psychoanalysing physical pain.” I clench and dig my fingers deeper, unable to stifle a grunt.

”I just wish you'd admit that Cuddy's condition may have something to do with it.”

“Fine! What does it matter? The result's the same!”

“The treatment isn't.”

“What, you expect me to just talk this away?”

“Obviously, it's not an instant cure, but it can hel—”

“Just write me some damn oxy,” I interrupt. “Or I'll find someone else who will.”

He scans the room. I know that look.

“And don't bring up Cuddy as an excuse,” I say before he opens his mouth. “She understands I need something for the pain.”

“She understands you being back on Vicodin right now. Climbing the ladder isn't exactly the same thing. She's already worried about you. You're going to pile on more. Do you really want to do that to her?”

“The question is, do _you_ really want to do that to her? I can't be with her like this.”

His eyes coast up and down me, seeming to fix on the spot where my body is partially fused with his desk. I shift away, separating, only to let my hip land back against the sharp edge. The stab subtracts a point or two from the ever-present gnawing below. There's a mixture of frustration, resignation, and something softer in his gaze. I know that one too. Pity.

He crumples the script from before, tosses it into the trash, gives me one more look, then presses his pen to a fresh paper.

* * *

29 March

“I can get it. It's all right.” Cuddy huffs, pushing away Foreman's attempts at helping her shove personal items from her desk into a box.

He backs up, awkward, speechless, glancing at me as I walk in.

“Congrats on the promotion,” I say. “Glad someone's seizing opportunities.”

Speaking of opportunities, I'd actually planned to open an intern position on the team for Masters, but the last case was too much for her, apparently. Seems she did some things she wasn't comfortable with. Things that resulted in saving a girl's life. Disappointing, 'cause she's got a good brain. But if she can't bend the rules, it's all wasted.

Foreman arches a brow. “It's temporary. And not my idea.”

“Feeling guilty? Good.”

Cuddy drops her name plate into the box. What would have normally been a seething glare is only lukewarm. “Foreman was the fifth person I asked. No one else wanted the job. Big surprise.”

There's a distinct unease in the air while Cuddy shuffles past him, box to her chest.

* * *

12 April (Two Weeks Later)

Wilson joins us in the living room, a folder tight between his fingers as if the pressure will alter whatever is inside for the better somehow. We sink into the couch cushions, a moment of unsettled quiet. Cuddy shifts and tugs her skirt straight. She wants to tell him he didn't have to come over, insist again he should be treating her like any other patient. That's ridiculous, of course, so he'll tell her as much, while getting the mistaken impression she doesn't want him here. She'll notice and try to reassure him without embarrassing either of them. They'll both feel stupid and uncomfortable.

Luckily, Cuddy's mouth closes as quickly as it opened, sparing us the whole awkward social dance routine.

Wilson's deep breath causes her to squeeze my hand.

Get it over with. I hold my tongue, don't allow those words to roll out even though every second is agony.

He flips open the folder and slides out the two scans on the coffee table. Cuddy tenses herself deep against the couch back, leg shaking against mine. My eyes leap to the scans, the old one and the new one, scrutinising.

He didn't even need to show the previous for comparison. Any idiot with partial vision and half a functioning brain could see it. The white blots haven't shrunk. They haven't even stayed the same. They've grown. And spread. They're invading the adjacent lymph nodes.

She gasps, a hand flying over her mouth.

Wilson winces, scrunches his nose between his fingers. “We should've started you on another TKI immediately.”

I pull my legs closer together to escape her trembling. I don't like how it makes me feel. “Or we should've started the IL-2 immediately.”

She latches onto me, burying her face in my chest. My hands find their way to her back. Wet seeps through my shirt, the fabric choking her sobs. It sticks to my skin the same way the stark truth hangs in the air around us. Wilson's eyes meet mine over her shoulder. He won't dare say it, but he thinks this is my fault. It's his.

“We wouldn't be in this situation,” I say, “if you hadn't skipped over the obvious first line treatment, then hesitated over some potential risk.” My tone turns biting. “Her heart's fine. She's fit and still young. This tiptoeing has just wasted precious time.”

He jolts from the couch, lip quivering with all that he wants to burst at me but can't. “You're doing what you do with all of your patients, taking risks, reaching for miracle cures.” He clenches his jaw. “It doesn't always work that way. You should know that by now.”

I ignore that. “The sad part is, you're the oncologist.”

“Don't argue about this.” Cuddy pulls herself from my chest, rubbing her eyes. “I made the decisions. I was wrong. Nothing we can do about it now.”

“There are still options.” Wilson touches her shoulder. “I can put you on sorafenib, or sunitib.”

“Or we can start the IL-2 now,” I say. “And we hit it hard. No playing it safe.”

Wilson casts a dubious glance, but doesn't remark. For Cuddy's sake.

“The main cause for failure is inadequate actual doses because somebody gets scared or uncomfortable and skips.”

“We don't actually know that.” Wilson sighs. "And it's the protocol for a reason.”

I grip the couch arm, dig into it. “If we do this, I'm gonna do it right.”

Wilson turns to Cuddy. “It's your call.”

She bites her lip, looking at him, then me. She blinks long. “I trust you.”

He doesn't need to say a word. It's written on his face. He thinks I'm getting her hopes up, getting my hopes up, for nothing. I'm not. This is going to work. She's going to be fine. Because she has to be.

* * *


	5. Changes - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When faced with a disastrous incident, House admits he needs to change his approach to Cuddy's treatment.

15 April

Cuddy's heart rate hovers around 90bpm, not great considering she's asleep, but the ECG stays steady. BP is 90/60. As I hang another bag of Ringer's lactate, the door slides open behind me.

“You've been here for three days solid,” Wilson says. “You should let the nurses do their job.”

“Nurses will screw something up.” My legs wobble, heavy eyelids blurring for a moment. I shake if off. Getting as many doses in her as possible while keeping her BP up, her heart rate down, and avoiding fluid overload is a balancing act. One I'd rather not trust to anyone else. “I have to do this myself.”

She stirs, half rolls onto her side.

“At least go to your office, try to sleep for a few hours. I'll stay with her.”

I squint at him, then at the wall clock. It's 9:30. Gave her the morning dose an hour and a half ago. The next one isn't until 4PM. There's a stab at my leg, a spike in the ambient pain level. Time for another pill.

“Wilson's right,” Cuddy murmurs.

I freeze with the bottle in my hand. She was more aware than I thought.

“Get some rest.”

I glance at her, then Wilson a final time. “Fine.”

* * *

A rattling sounds in the periphery of consciousness. A latch clicks. I wake up. The dim surroundings of Wilson's office, curtains drawn, return to focus. I roll my neck across the sofa arm, glance at the door. Someone must have peeked in a moment ago, probably expecting Wilson and finding me asleep on his couch, instead.

It's a little after eleven o'clock. Still tired. I roll onto my side, eyelids drifting closed. The blackness swallows me again, extinguishes the sting of waking reality. Only to grip me with a sense of impending doom.

Her voice lashes like a whip, hissing into clarity. "Why keep deluding yourself?” Amber blinks through the amorphous void, in front, on my left, on my right, condescending smile, a blade searching for a weak point. “You know how this is going to end.”

“This is getting really boring.” I tap my cane at the non-existent floor to a cavernous echo. “The whole intruding my dreams and wrecking what little sleep I can manage with your tired banter.”

“Keep pretending you don't care.” She blows at my ear. “Keep pretending Cuddy has a chance.”

I force a yawn, hand in front of my mouth, ignoring her static warps from one side to the other.

“You're not a first year med student,” she says. “You know damn well interleukin-2 has a poor response rate in cancers with her cell type. A cure is a fairy tale. Something I'd expect from a child who still believes in Santa Claus. Not someone with your logical mind.”

She phases through me. “Wilson knows. He'd be a pretty poor member of his field if he didn't. And you know he's not. He's just humouring you.”

Her eyes are inches from mine again. “Painting stripes on a horse doesn't make a zebra. She's not a special case just because you want her to be.”

She materialises below me, a pane of glass. Perfect. I slam my cane into it. A spiderweb forms in the surface. Her eyes keep taunting.

“Why don't you try something more interesting?” I bash again.

“Okay.” She smirks, exploding into shards, blowing me backwards, blasting my eardrums with the reverberating shatter.

I lurch awake, plant my feet on the floor, steady myself. Maybe coffee is a better idea.

* * *

Cameron, Chase, and Thirteen sit around the conference room table, studying a case file. “Thought you were taking some time off,” Cameron says.

“What, a man can't come into his own office for coffee?” I limp past them to the counter.

“Sure what you need right now is coffee and not sleep?” Chase squints.

“Yup.” I fill the machine.

“Ask what they're working on.” An annoying whisper swims into my ear. “Go on.”

My hand freezes at the coffee machine button. A knot catches in my throat, seems to sink to my stomach. My eyes close reflexively. I'm not dreaming. That means...

“Are you okay?” Cameron's voice bombards me from behind.

“Great question.” I flip a sarcastic glance back at her. Chase and Thirteen look at her and then at each other. Yeah, we all know Cameron never learns.

“You said to try something different.” Amber. Just her voice. She's not in the room. I want to snap at her that this isn't creative. It's just as worn out as her other attempts. But obviously I can't. More importantly, it wouldn't be rational.

The pot bubbles.

“Head CT and LP showed nothing,” Chase says to the others. “Spinal MRIs and EMG were clean.”

“You need to focus on Cuddy,” Amber says. “But what you really want is to hide in this case, go on like nothing's changed.”

Don't need her telling me that.

“Neuro-otological pathology could have caused loss of balance.”

“Calorics were normal.”

I can't stop myself. “Who's the patient?”

“Refrigerator mechanic, no family, in and out of work,” Chase says. “Just won $42 million in the state lottery.”

“Nice.” I pull my lips into my mouth for a moment, then turn to grab a mug. “Too bad it won't make any difference once it's all blown on cocaine, hookers, and super cars.”

“Hm. I dunno.” Chase reclines his chair on its back legs. “He might not screw it up. That kind of money, he could turn his life around.”

“But we know differently, don't we?” comes Amber.

“Miserable stays miserable.” I put the mug under the coffee maker and watch it trickle for a bit. “Happy doesn't buy lottery tickets in the first place.”

Thirteen locks her hands together, elbows on the table. “Our level of happiness is set,” she says. “It's in our DNA. No cash payout's gonna change that.”

“Wow.” I take the mug, press it to my lip. Too hot. “It's like there's two of me.”

Surprisingly, Cameron doesn't bother arguing. "It's likely that years of exposure to toxic chemicals could have damaged his brain.”

“Possible.” A soft blow sends ripples through the coffee. “But the sudden disease may have come from his sudden millions. Could be buying something, collecting something stupid and contaminated—ceramics, precious metals—which gave him atherosclerosis of his carotid arteries.”

A sip is tolerable now. “If I were you, I'd search his home.”

“That would be fun, wouldn't it?” Amber muses. “Chance to get out and away from it all, play detective.”

I ignore her. “So, has Thirteen told you why she was gone?”

“Good idea,” Amber says. “Stir up some drama with the team.”

Thirteen sends a look, half concern, half annoyance.

Chase glances at her, then me. “Erm... no.”

She crosses her arms, posturing defensively.

I take a longer sip. “Too bad.”

* * *

I hook my cane on the bed rail and go to hang the fresh bag of IL-2 on the crowded IV stand. Arlene's legs are in the way.

“You'll have to move.”

She pats Cuddy's hand and turns to me with a glare. “Shouldn't a nurse be doing this?” She lifts up, scuffs her chair back, creating a small gap.

“Not my speciality, but I think I can manage.” I squeeze in and slide the bag on. “Much more than can be said when you decide to cook.”

“I don't think I like you handling my daughter's treatment.”

“Mom,” Cuddy scolds. “I'm an adult.”

Arlene glances at her dismissively before returning her sour gaze to me.

“Really? Not confident in my ability to swap IV bags and monitor vitals?” I adjust the drip. “Pretty sure they covered that at some point in med school.”

Her eyes narrow. “Did they also cover going behind your patient's back at every chance?”

I slide out from the gap and grab my cane from the bed railing. “Oh, right. I never did apologise properly for saving your life. Sorry about that.”

Cuddy groans. “Would you two stop?”

“I'm just a little concerned,” Arlene says, ignoring her exasperated daughter. “You're not exactly the most mobile member of staff.” Her eyes cut to my leg.

“Just how much running do you think I need to do in here?”

“Seriously. Stop it. Both of you.” Cuddy grips the railing and pulls herself up. “You're not helping.”

“Sorry,” Arlene blurts stiffly. “I just don't understand why someone else can't do this.”

My hand slides over the smooth hook of my cane. I bite my tongue to keep from lashing.

“If you don't want to be here, go home, Mom.”

“I just got here.” Arlene brushes her slacks, indignant. “I'm not letting anyone force me away.”

“Then you'll have to get along.” Cuddy stares hard at her, then me.

Great. I need another oxy. Arlene scrunches her brows as I pull out the bottle and pry off the cap. Her mouth starts to open, then her eyes roll to Cuddy and she stops herself.

“Hm. You sure that's for your leg?” Amber's voice slashes through my brain. “Just keep popping them like candy. That'll solve everything.”

My fingers tighten around my cane. This is worse than Arlene.

“You'll be back in Mayfield before you know it. Clawing the bed, thrashing around all night, unable to shut me out.”

More like I'll just be bored out of my mind.

Clacking shoes echo from behind. “Mommy!” Rachel runs in, trailed by Julia at a normal pace.

“She kept asking to see you.” Julia steps up beside me.

“Oh, I really didn't want...” Cuddy pauses, chapped lips sticking together.

Rachel pounces at the bed, IV cords tangling around her legs. I catch her and lift her free, set her beside Cuddy, who hugs her weakly.

“Sorry to leave her on you.” Cuddy reaches towards her sister.

“It's okay.” Julia takes her hand. “One more's not a big deal. Rachel's having a good time at our place.”

Rachel cocks her head towards her aunt. “Am not.”

“Rachel.” Cuddy sweeps her bangs. “That's not polite.”

Julia smiles. “She sounds like her grandma.”

Arlene pulls a stick of gum from her purse, unaffected.

“I wanna play click-click with House.” Rachel juts her chin towards me.

My feet slide me back a step.

“Click-click?” Cuddy's finger stops moving along Rachel's forehead as she turns to me.

“Oh no.” Amber is like a stabbing headache. “Wouldn't want her to find out you were training her little girl like a dog, would you?”

“Oh, it's nothing,” I say to Cuddy. “Some game she made up.”

“Go ahead. Ignore me.” Amber's voice gets louder. “You won't be able to for long.”

* * *

16 April

There's another sharp flick at my ear. My heavy eyelids shoot open and I lurch forwards in the chair by Cuddy's bed. Must have fallen asleep for a few minutes. Amber won't let me have more than that.

She looms over me, smirking. “How long do you think you can keep this up?”

“How long can you?” I ask, low, to avoid waking Cuddy who writhes every so often, sweat beading on her forehead.

“Nice retort.” Amber leans in close, hand on the back of my chair. “You're already losing your mind. You can't even see it.” Her breath tickles my neck, as real as the stiff arm rests digging into my elbows, the drip of the IV, or the flock of pigeons fluttering by the window.

Cuddy stirs, digging a reddened place on her arm. “I'm still itching,” she murmurs with half-closed eyes.

Bilirubin levels are fine. It's not her liver this time. Probably cytokine mediated irritation of peripheral nerves. “I'll get you some gabapentin.” I use my cane to tap the button to call a nurse.

Her eyes widen and fix on me. “You said that before.”

My arm freezes, cane still extended. No, I didn't. I draw it back slowly. “I think I'd remember.”

“See?” Amber smiles again. “Day four of high-dose IL-2 and Cuddy is more lucid than you are.”

I want to snap at her. Some sort of logical riposte that will prove she's wrong. I can't. And not only because Cuddy is staring at me. My mind can't form an argument. It's the lack of sleep. That's all.

* * *

“He had a focal seizure. It's neurological, but not toxic inhalation or metal poisoning.” The words come into focus before I realise who's speaking them or that I'm standing in front of the conference room table.

“Neurological Lyme's Disease would explain the seizures... and the paralysis,” Cameron says slowly, clearly paying more mind to scrutinising me.

Are we talking about lottery guy? Obviously I can't ask that.

“Wondering why you're here, aren't you?” Amber pushes a breath at the back of my neck, pricking up the little hairs. As if I could forget her for a second.

Chase sets down his mug to hurl me a similar look of scepticism. Coffee? What time is it? “Er... antibody titers were negative for Lyme's Disease,” he says.

“Postural hypotension,” Thirteen offers with an arched brow. “Could have reduced the blood supply to his brain.”

“Is something smeared all over my face?” I limp a step forwards, a sense of action to substitute for a concrete goal.

They exchange glances.

“No? Then stop staring like there is.”

“He'd be a miserable wretch,” Amber whispers in my ear. My lips move without my telling them to, repeating her words. “He'd be a miserable wretch.”

Cameron straightens her shoulders against the chair back. “Actually, the prognosis is—“

“Oh, I'm sorry.” I cut her off. My fingers squeeze my cane handle, a metaphor for wringing out the intent under the fog. It wasn't Amber's idea first. I know what I'm thinking. She's not telling me anything new. I can always take a jab at a patient. “No, I just meant his life is gonna unravel.”

“Are you sure about that?” Amber comes around to my side. “Hey, maybe you're really talking about yourself.”

“It's not postural hypotension.” Chase faces Thirteen. “He's not orthostatic.” He turns to the pen on the glass below him, gives it a click without lifting it, then looks at me. “Yeah, his life could unravel, or maybe not. He's not going after material things.”

Amber brushes against me on her way by, provoking an instinctual shudder. She stops in front of the window, peering for a moment before flicking a backward glance. “Nice way to divert your broken mind from all the things that really matter.”

My jaw clenches, cane wobbling from front to back. I let her turn to a blur against the overcast sky on the opposite side of the glass, the team sharpening into focus. “Too bad,” I say. “He might actually get those.”

“He's looking for the love of his life.” Cameron pouts her lips. “That's something.”

Thirteen arches towards the table. “And she'll never live up to the memory. The thrill of finding her will wear off and he won't even be able to dream about being happy.”

“Interesting. Down on the patient's romance because your own lifespan is shorter than dinner and a movie?”

“You're the one who said miserable stays miserable. You keep saying it. Several times a day.” She pushes her hair behind her ear as her gaze turns to where Amber stands at the window. “I love being back, having every theory you and I share used as proof of my own personal damage.”

Amber flicks the blinds away and lets them smack against the window frame. _Flap_.

Thirteen doesn't react. Because it's not real. It's not really moving.

 _Flap_.

I clench my eyes shut.

_Flap._

“Are you okay?” Cameron asks.

“Headache.” Fixing on the table again, I try to ignore the moving blur in the periphery.

_Flap._

“Anyway, more importantly,” Thirteen redirects. “A quest for his lost love doesn't mean he's not been sleeping around. Could be Herpes encephalitis. Would explain the neurological symptoms.”

“No, he doesn't seem the type to do that,” Cameron argues. “He's really committed to finding Jennifer.”

_Flap._

I pound my cane to the carpet. “Wow.” And again, in time to the annoying blinds smacking. “Already know the name of the lost love.”

Questioning returns to the eyes of the team, flicking between my face and my cane.

I grind the tip into the carpet, along with the urge to stomp it louder. “As fun as it would be to watch you two fight about this for the rest of the day, we've gotta move on. EEG to confirm. IV acyclovir to treat.”

The flapping stops. “Is that safe?”

And the hazy blob transforms into a gloating Amber once more as the team push out their chairs. They hesitate a moment, then disperse around me without another word.

“Calling for treatments in your condition, I mean.” Amber strides across to me.

The conference room door swings closed. “Do you even know what's going on?”

The footsteps become distant in the hall.

“Of course I do,” I answer before considering it.

Images return in piecemeal. Hanging another bag of IL-2. It was time. But what were Cuddy's vitals? The digits on the monitors are a contiguous smudge in my memory. It's Amber's fault. She prodded me constantly. Couldn't ignore her. I had to say something back. But I couldn't. Not with Cuddy tossing and turning, and complaining.

A hard swallow gulps down.

“You remember, don't you?” Her lips twist to the side in a smirk.

No. Not entirely. What did I give her? Why did I leave her and come here?

I lurch myself to motion, out and down the hall as fast as my limp will allow.

* * *

The unmistakable staccato beeps flood my ears as I round the corner. I push my numbed leg faster and faster, rocking with jagged motions.

Through the glass, the code team surround Cuddy's bed, pumping a bag-valve-mask over her face, compressing her chest, charging the defibrillator paddles.

“Go ahead. Get in their way.” Amber's voice causes me to freeze at the door. “That'll definitely clean up your mess.”

“You did this.”

“No. You did. I'm not real, remember?”

It's stupid, infantile, vulnerable, but I can't stop it from tearing through me and bursting from my throat. “Shut up!” The force leaves me shaking, cane wobbling.

Her lips form a line, a brief resignation. Then the twinkle of malice flares in her eyes again. They're fixing on something over my shoulder. Someone.

Wilson. He blinks in quick succession, mouth half-open in the stage of searching for the right words. “Who... who were you talking to just now?” he asks after a moment.

I turn back to the glass, back to the figures flurrying around Cuddy's body, all hands pulling away, paddles going down. A jolt. Back to chest compressions. One. Two. Three. I lose count. His gaze is like a 12 gauge needle in my neck.

“Really?” I whip around. “That's what you care about right now?”

“All right, then.” He crosses his arms, eyes flicking between the crisis in the other room and me. “What the hell happened here?”

A few breaths pour out of me.

Arms tangle, one set maintaining chest compressions, another guiding the endotracheal tube in, another charging the paddles a second time.

“Pushed too hard.”

He squints, surveying the space around us. “That's all?”

“What else do you need?” I can't stop a sideways glance to Amber, silent in her self-satisfaction before I look in the room again. “It's done. Nothing can change that.”

The ECG shows normal rhythm. She's plugged to a ventilator. The team step back, heaving sighs and glistening with perspiration. It's over.

“It doesn't matter how it happened.” I turn to Wilson. “I can't do this any more.”

His brows quirk up. He didn't think I'd admit it. I'm not that stupid. Something needs to change.

* * *


	6. Changes - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> House reviews his pain problem and finds a new distraction.

17 April

The fibres of the oversized tennis ball dig into my palm. All I can manage is squeezing it and rolling it absent-mindedly back and forth across my desk. Anything flashier and I'd probably bust some glass. Coordination tends to suck when you're getting less than an hour of sleep a night.

“This is pitiful.” Amber stops the ball. “Embarrassing.”

I barely glance at her, pulling the bottle of oxy from my jacket, tilting it and watching the pills roll into the cap.

“Promised Cuddy you wouldn't run away again,” she says. “But you're still running away.”

“I screwed up.” My eyes meet hers for a moment, then flick to the closed blinds. A janitor rustles by with a mop on the other side. “I almost killed her.”

“So, what, you're just going to hide in here and pout like a scared little boy?”

I slam the oxycodone bottle on my desk. My hand flies to my cane and pounds the tip to the carpet. “I'm not hiding, dammit.”

Amber picks up the ball. “What else do you call this?” She tosses it into the air, then catches it with her other hand.

“Letting the nurses do their job. She's better off without me right now.”

“Hmm.” Amber pitches the ball up again, snatches it without breaking her visual lock on me. “Maybe. But that, in itself, is pathetic. How many patients have you saved from the brink of death? How many others have you seen die? You should be able to handle this. The fact you can't is beyond sad.”

I raise from my chair, muscles tight. “No. This is logical. Rational. I'm too close to this. I'm stepping back. I'm doing what any normal person would do.”

She catches the ball again. “But you're not a normal person.”

My jaw clenches. "It doesn't matter.”

She twirls the ball in her palm, studying it. “The reason a normal person would step back is entirely different from the reason you're stepping back.”

“Reasons don't matter. The outcome is the same.”

“Not necessarily.” She sets the ball back on the desk. “You're so emotionally constipated you're hooked on opioids again and arguing with your best friend's dead girlfriend. You think there won't be any other consequences?”

“No.” My eyes fix on the pill bottle. “But they won't be because of you.” I sweep it into the trash can with my cane.

“Oh, right.” She smirks. “Give it half a day, every nerve will be on fire, you'll be sweating like it's 100 degrees and puking every hour.”

I glare unflinchingly. “If it gets rid of you, bring it on.”

The door swings open behind her. The team walk in, seeming to notice my aggressive stance. I loosen up.

“Not so lucky, after all. Three completely unrelated cancers at once,” Chase says. “Could be Von Hippel Lindau.”

I sit in my chair. “Wouldn't have touched his colon.”

“The patient could be missing a tumour-suppressor gene.” Thirteen takes another step closer.

“How would we even find it?” Cameron asks.

“Platelet count's through the floor.” Chase stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Can't start him on chemo.”

“Even worse it'd contain his cancers.” I lean my chair on its rear legs. “If we want to know what they have in common, we've gotta see where they spread next.”

The team exchange glances. “You want to wait six months while the cancer spreads and his seizures and paralysis get worse?”

“Well, now, that's crazy talk. But if we pump the patient full of vascular endothelial growth factor...”

“You want to grow more and bigger cancers?”

“We can't figure out what three small ones have in common, maybe we can figure out what eight big ones have in common.”

“Don't think Foreman's gonna like that idea,” Chase says.

“Too bad. Go get lotto boy's consent, and turn his cancers up to 11.”

The team leave and I turn on my computer. There's another solution.

* * *

“Interesting.” Amber leans against my chair, hovering over my shoulder as I flip to another tab in the browser. Studies involving muscle regrowth. There's a lab here in Jersey running a trial.

“Too bad you can't sign up.”

“No, but I can do something just as good.” I jot down the phone number and address on a notepad, tear the page, and stuff it into my jeans pocket.

Amber shifts out of the way as I stand. “Can't wait to see how _this_ is going to go wrong.”

I ignore her and grab my jacket off the back of my chair. Before I can slip my arm into the sleeve, something pokes my leg from behind. A finger.

Rachel looks up at me. A moment of surprise passes.

“How cute.” Amber clacks her nails on my desk.

“How did you get in here?” I ask.

“Over there.” Rachel points at the conference room door.

“Yeah, not what I meant. How did you get away from your aunt?”

She just stares.

My beeper sounds at my waist. I check it. That didn't take long.

* * *

As I step into Cuddy's, now Foreman's, office—for now, at least—the team turn from Foreman to me with curious eyes.

“Oh, this little thing attached to me?” I lift Rachel's hand. “Don't mind her.”

She giggles. They smile at her, minus Foreman, who maintains a straight, if not somewhat constipated expression as he keeps both arms on top of the desk. He's hooked to a blood pressure monitor.

“More interesting is the thing attached to you.” I motion to him with my cane.

“What's that?” Rachel points.

“Chase claims I'm dealing with more than I can handle. Bet me a hundred bucks I couldn't keep my systolic below 140 for a week.”

“Which was stupid.” Cameron nudges Chase. “You're going to lose. And then I'll have to punish you for wasting money.”

“Awkward,” Amber announces behind me. It went without saying, but she had to remind me she's here.

“So, why are we all congregating to watch your BP?” I bounce my cane and Rachel lets go of my other hand.

Foreman sighs. His systolic goes up two points. “I'm not letting you make a patient's cancer worse just so you can solve a puzzle.”

_Pop._

Rachel's capping and uncapping a marker. Must have swiped it when she sneaked through the conference room to my office earlier. Hate it when people touch my markers.

“Great,” I say. “Let him die slowly and mysteriously, then. Because that's so much more ethical and that's clearly all that matters.”

Rachel toddles to Foreman's desk, stops beside the BP monitor, everyone watching.

“You're not going to cure him by making his tumours grow.” Foreman's gaze lingers on her for a moment as she taps the capped marker against the desk corner, then he looks at me.

She drops to the carpet, staring at his expensive looking loafers with a glint in her eyes.

I pretend not to notice. “Might. Won't know unless we try.”

He scoffs. “Great point.” His BP rises to 138/90. Dangerously close to the cut off.

“Typical.” Amber's breath makes my neck hairs stand on end. “Kill a patient to distract yourself from almost killing Cuddy because you're incapable of talking to anyone about it.”

She's wrong. That's not what I'm doing. And talking about it won't change what happened. If it won't change what happened, then it's pointless.

The team look between themselves, before Thirteen speaks up. “We actually don't have any other options at this point.”

“So...” Foreman's brows arch. “Whenever we run out of options, we should just do whatever will kill the patient fastest?”

“Playing it safe. I get it.” I take a few steps forwards to distance myself from Amber. “Wouldn't want any malpractice suits in your first three weeks in the big chair. Literally, big, by the way. Had to be.”

“Wow.” Amber gives voice to the various shades of misgiving represented in the room. “Still joking about Cuddy's ass.”

“Look, you're dealing with a lot right now.” Foreman shifts his arms on the desk. “I don't think you should be involved with this case. Or a _ny_ case right now.”

“You can't be serious.” Cameron marches over and plants both hands on the desk top. “You know he needs to do this to function.”

“Aww...” I step up beside her and touch her shoulder, give it a squeeze. Her eyes meet mine with apprehension. “Thanks for sticking up for me like that.”

“Cameron's right.” Chase crosses his arms.

Sarcasm oozes out of me. “You two are so adorable.” I pull my hand back from Cameron while she straightens up, then glance at Thirteen. “No support from _you_? You're hurting my feelings.”

Her face remains inscrutable as she leans to the side, both hands in the pockets of her slacks.

“This is ridiculous.” Foreman raises in his chair, almost squirming, teeth gleaming in a bitter smile. “So, we should endanger a patient just so House can get through another day?”

“He's gonna die anyway if we don't find the cause of his cancer,” Thirteen finally says.

“Yeah, and he most likely will no matter what.” Foreman clasps his fingers together and leans back, feigning relaxation. “No reason to speed it up.”

“It could be treatable,” Chase agrees.

“Either way, it's his call.” Cameron bores through Foreman with a pouty stare.

His BP is holding. But just barely. “Fine. If he wants to go for it, do it.”

“Getting your way again.” Amber's remark pulls my gaze to where she's sprawling on the couch. “What a surprise.”

I ignore her and prod Foreman. “Surprised your BP isn't skyrocketing.”

His brows scrunch and he leans forwards. “Why?”

“Because...” I motion below him with the tip of my cane. She's been in my periphery the whole time, crouched under the desk by his feet, but I wasn't particularly bothered. Figured to let her have at it. “Rachel's covered your shoes in marker. Hope you like smiley faces and stars.”

“Crap!” He lifts a leg out to assess the damage as she scrambles up and runs to hide behind me, everyone else laughing.

His BP has shot up to 145/100. “Oops.” I roll my head in the direction of the monitor. “Looks like you'd better pay up.”

“Damn.” He rips off the arm cuff, reaches into his wallet and passes a bill to a grinning Chase.

* * *

Rachel swings her legs back and forth in the chair beside mine. The clack of her shoes punctuates the rhythmic gasps of the ventilator and the voice on the intercom echoing from the hall. She stares at me, a blameless smile creeping across her lips at the mention of her name. The hospital is going into lock down while they search for a missing child. Odd it's taking Foreman so long to catch wind, so he can call it off.

“Surprised you don't just ditch her here.” Amber looks at her and prods one of Cuddy's IV bags. “They'll find her soon enough.”

Could've done that. Would have been easier.

“Maybe you actually want to be yelled at by someone.” The bag squishes and sloshes with more violent pokes. “Why else sit here and watch this play out?”

“Why is Mommy still sleeping?” Rachel draws my attention to Cuddy's motionless form.

There's a pang in my thigh. The nerves are waking up. I rub through my jeans. “They had to give her sleeping medicine so she won't choke on the tube down her throat.”

“Ouch.” Amber's index finger freezes at the bag, her eyes cutting towards me. “Nice way to drop it on her.”

Rachel's face contorts as she looks between me and the mask on Cuddy's face. “Why's....why's it in her throat?”

“It's so she can breathe.”

Her eyes get bigger. “Does it hurt?”

“Not while she's asleep.” I keep massaging.

“Starting already.” Amber casts a knowing smirk.

The woman on the intercom makes another announcement. Apparently, the child isn't actually missing, so everyone can disregard the prior order. About time.

Approaching clacks from the hall make me turn to the doorway. Julia looks like she's just run a hundred meter dash, too tired to fuss with the purse half drooping off her shoulder.

“Figures you'd have something to do with this.” Arlene shuffles in behind her, fixing on me with newfound contempt.

Foreman doesn't bother coming in and huffs off. Well, metaphorically. He doesn't show it. Love to see his BP now. He must be incredibly frustrated someone went over his head.

Julia kneels down in front of Rachel, sets a hand on her shoulder. “Rachel, honey, don't run off like that. You scared us.”

She glances at me, then her aunt and answers flatly. “Okay.”

“What were you thinking?”

“She's three, Julia.” Arlene steps up, shifting in a way that communicates her desire for me to move and give her my chair. “She probably wasn't thinking anything.”

Rachel juts out her chin, as if offended by the notion. “I wanted to play with House.”

“Aww. How adorable.” Amber taps her nails on the IV stand. “Who would've thought a kid would ever like you?”

“Oh, honey, House is...” Julia stops herself.

“Defective,” Amber finishes.

Not what Julia was going to say. But, then again, with how she's looking at me maybe it might as well be. I roll my eyes over to a perturbed Arlene and figure it's time to move out of the way.

“It's almost time for dinner,” Julia says. “Let's get you home, okay?” She takes Rachel's hand and guides her up, then leans in to hug Arlene. “I'll see you later, Mom.”

Rachel refuses to budge when Julia takes a step. “It's not home.”

There's a moment of awkward silence. Julia will no doubt offer soothing words or bribes of candy. But I don't let her. “She can stay with me,” I blurt, sliding my cane up and down, keeping my gaze to the side.

“Wow... and you were barely capable of babysitting when you _weren't_ detoxing.” Amber flicks the IV bag again. She sharpens into focus as everyone else blurs.

“Are... are you sure?” Julia's voice sounds to the side, but I don't turn.

Not even when Rachel stomps, jumping up and down. “Yeah, I wanna stay with House!” she chants. “Stay with House! Stay with House!”

“Is the brat actually growing on you?” Amber twirls the IV line around her finger. “Is that possible?”

I ignore her and face Julia. “Yeah, it'll be fine.”

* * *

19 April

Hours crawl by watching the ventilator pump. I don't know why I'm in Cuddy's room. It makes my leg feel like thousands of fiery worms are burrowing and squirming about inside, leaving a trail of burning nerves, eating away at the muscle.

It's a weak explanation, a weak basis for a course of action—or inaction as the case seems—but with Rachel, this seems like where I should be.

“Here.” She hands me another page from a health food magazine, where's she's cross-legged on the floor below me, tearing them out.

I take the page, force down the corners in spite of the tremors gripping my fingers, manage another air-plane. “Aim better this time.”

“Okay.” She grabs it from me and bounces off to the doorway.

“Doubt Cuddy would be impressed with your parenting.” Amber thumbs through a travel magazine in the chair beside mine. “Teaching her to throw things at people.”

“Not her parent.” I grind the shaft of my cane into my leg, rolling it back and forth. “So, it doesn't count.”

Poised to send the plane into the air, Rachel turns around. “Who you talking to?”

I glance at Amber. Her eyes flare with amusement.

“No one,” I say. “My imaginary friend.”

“Maginary friend?”

“Just focus on your target.”

Her gaze lingers on me for a few seconds before returning to the hall. After two strokes, she launches the plane with all her strength. She stumbles forwards, catching herself against the wall by the door.

“Got her!” She rushes back to my chair.

“Good job.”

She ducks beside me as the doors slide open. It's not nurse Hijaltry, but Chase, Cameron, and Thirteen with expressions ranging from amusement, mild surprise, and indecipherable, in that order. The way they hesitate before speaking communicates their curiosity about the general crappiness of my appearance.

“The tumours have shrunk.” Chase shuffles through a handful of scans, holding each up for a few seconds.

“If it's autoimmune, his body created antibodies that ended up fighting his own tumours.” Cameron's eyes follow Rachel, who plops down and resumes tearing magazine pages. “The growth factor made the underlying autoimmune condition better.”

I straighten my back. “Maybe it was never cancer to begin with.”

“Of course it was.” She tries to ignore the sound of paper ripping. “We biopsied.”

“Here.” Rachel passes me another page.

“False positive?” I fold the top corners and she watches every movement.

“Amyloidosis?” Thirteen suggests. “His EKG voltage has been on the low end of normal. What if the tumours were actually protein deposits?”

Another plane finished. I hold it between my index and thumb for a moment. “Biopsy to confirm, chemo to treat.” I hurl it towards Chase.

He catches it inches from his chest. Rachel bounds up to him, stares expectantly. He smiles and gives her the plane.

“Low-normal is still normal.” Cameron barely pays attention to her own words, glowing at the exchange. She doesn't have to say it. She's bubbling over with anticipation of meeting their own little parasite.

“Low-normal is still low.” Thirteen crosses her arms, shifts away ever-so-slightly.

“More importantly,” Chase redirects. “His platelet count's still low. Chemo's still a death sentence.”

Cameron looks at me. “Treating for amyloid with normal EKG is like performing a gastrectomy on someone because they've got indigestion.”

“I guess we should do it your way.” I glance at her intermittently between watching Rachel scamper to the door. “Go and look concerned until he gets better.”

Rachel musters everything she's got for an exaggerated throw. The plane soars from the room.

“GI biopsy to confirm, chemo to treat,” I say to the team.

“Hope you don't kill him.” Amber crosses her legs. Right. She's still here.

They offer no more resistance.

Rachel charges through them on their way out. She stops in front of me as Nurse Hijaltry stomps in, hands on her hips.

I point to Rachel.

The nurse shakes her head and leaves.

“Really responsible tormenting a nurse on her shift,” jabs Amber.

Rachel pokes my arm. “I want ice cream.”

Hm. Cuddy's leftover Zofran is taking care of the nausea, so right now that doesn't sound like a bad idea.

* * *

The sun filters through the trees and bounces off the water below. It's turning orange. I lean against the railing of the footbridge, rich chocolate swirling through my mouth with every bite. Rachel slurps a strawberry ice cream beside me and crunches sprinkles between her teeth. A few pairs of geese honk.

“I wanna see.” Rachel hops at the railing.

I hook my cane and lift her under one arm so I won't lose my ice cream.

“Duckies!”

“No, not duckies. Duckies go 'quack quack'. These go 'honk honk'. That's a goose. Apparently Mommy's been slacking off on the picture books.”

Of course she would. Stupid thing to say.

“Goose?”

She's slipping and it's hard to hold her with only one arm. I know I'm going to regret this. “Climb up.” I bend down, let her onto my shoulders. “Watch the drips, okay? No ice cream in my hair.”

“Okay.”

I doubt that. I stand, licking the melty parts of my cone.

“Is Mommy coming home soon?”

A knife stabs into my leg again. Lying doesn't solve anything. But she's three. She's just started using whole sentences. She wouldn't understand. On the other hand, everyone deserves the truth.

“I don't know.”

“Why not? Why's Mommy sick?”

This is the moment a dad would take her off his shoulders and bring her around front, hug her tight, tell her he loves her and everything's okay. But I'm not her dad. She doesn't have one. Well, of course she does, but not in any way that matters.

“She has cancer.” The cold drills into my teeth with another bite of ice cream.“ The treatment we're giving her is boosting her immune system to fight the cancer in her body. But it comes with risks. And it might not work.” The words are out by the time I've realised I still haven't simplified it sufficiently.

Rachel doesn't say anything as the wheels grind in her head.

“We're giving her medicine to make her better,” I add.

A cool drop lands in my hair.

“Hey, what did I say about dripping?”

“Sorry.” She slurps at her cone. Then she's quiet again. “But... what happens if the medicine doesn't work?”

Wow. What an astute question.

It's easy, yet at the same time, it's not. Most kids learn about this with a goldfish or a hamster. And I've never found myself in the situation of having to explain it.

Another drop.

“Give me that.” I jerk the ice cream cone from her hand and hold it out.

“No!” She strains to lift from my neck, reaches past my head, whimpering.

The pink liquid snakes down the cone. It trickles onto my fingers and splats to the brick of the bridge.

“Fine. If I give it back, you have to eat it faster.”

“I will!” She grabs desperately.

Her slurps resume as I scoop a glob of my own ice cream to my gums with my tongue and sag against the bridge railing. The chill deadens, for a moment, the rake dragging through my thigh tissue.

The glob is melted by the time something whizzes past my ear. I gulp down the chocolate syrup. A tiny splash ripples in the water below and the geese honk around it. “What was that?”

“Giving them sprinkles!” Rachel points.

“Nice idea, but I can think of something even more fun to do with those.” I crunch a chunk of cone down.

“What?” she asks between licks.

“Give me one and I'll show you.” I reach up a palm. She deposits a cold, wet sprinkle.

I pinch it between my index and thumb. So hard it's a wonder they don't get lawsuits for breaking people's teeth. I unhook my cane from the rail and take a few limps to the edge of the bridge that overlooks the path that runs along the pond.

A sparkling target presents itself. Sunlight beaming from the head of a bald guy tying his shoes. “See him?” I motion.

“Mm-hm.”

“Watch this.” I flick the sprinkle. It arcs through the air and strikes perfectly on target. So satisfying.

The man jumps up and whirls around. “What the hell?”

I shuffle back, just out of sight, Rachel giggling.

“Again! Do it again!” She passes me another sprinkle.

The bald guy is too far now, but after a few more bites of ice cream, a new target comes within range. A kid on a bike. No helmet. Perfect. He's pedalling slowly, stops to look at the geese.

Flick.

“Ow!” He rubs his head. "What was that?”

I move back, chomping another hunk of cone, before he turns this way.

“Again!” Rachel drops another sprinkle into my palm. She's saved them in her hand, which I can imagine is pretty sticky. Like my hair. There's an occasional drip to my head, but that doesn't really matter any more.

The next target is a girl talking on her cellphone. Arguing with a boyfriend from what I can make out from this distance.

Flick.

“Ouch!” She whips around. “Hey!”

Just in time.

“Something hit me,” The girl says.“Yeah, hit me. I think some asshole kid's throwing things.” Her voice comes closer.

“Uh-oh,” Rachel says between chomps.

 _MMMBop_ echoes from my pocket. The team.

I cram the rest of my cone into my mouth and answer.

“Patient's in critical condition,” Thirteen reports. “Went into cardiac arrest, lungs and liver failing before we even started chemo.” There must be some interesting body language happening on the other side of the phone because she feels the need to defend herself. “I didn't do this to him.”

“Well,” Cameron says, “you didn't have to upset him for no reason.”

“What's all this? Did I miss something good?”

“Thirteen pointed out Jennifer was wearing coloured contacts. She doesn't have brown eyes.”

“She's coming!” Rachel pokes my head.

The girl rises over crest of the incline. “I knew it!” She shouts. “What's wrong with you asshole?”

I hobble for the opposite end of the bridge.

“Not gonna help him this way,” comes Chase's voice in my ear. “It's not amyloidosis.”

“Faster! Faster!” Rachel's sticky fingers prod my head again.

“Sorry, little miss jockey,” I grunt out with choppy strides, “afraid this is as fast horsies with bad legs can go.”

The brick bridge comes to an end and turns to gravelled path. It's all downhill so I have to watch my step.

“Sorry to interrupt play time, but our patient is dying.”

“Well aware of that,” I say between laboured breaths. The gravel crunches under my shoes. Two more limps and my cane lands wrong. It twists, kicks out. Rachel shrieks as we topple to the ground. I catch myself on my palms, the sting of pebbles digging into my flesh radiating outwards.

“You should be ashamed of yourself!” Cellphone-girl calls.

I turn over, slump into a sitting position.“You okay?” I manage, Rachel's arms around my neck nearly cutting off air.

She loosens. “Uh-huh.”

My phone's beside us. It looks okay.

Cellphone-girl stomps up, glaring. “I could file assault charges against you.”

I grab my cane and pull myself to my feet. “It was a damn sprinkle.”

Her eyes go wide in a moment of surprise, then they narrow again.

“If you think the judge wouldn't toss out the case, laughing, go ahead,” I say. “Personally, I think it'd be in your best interest to develop a sense of humour before you end up with a serious blood pressure problem.”

“Sense of humour? Throwing stuff at people is not funny.” She looks at Rachel on my shoulders, then at me again. “I'd expect that sort of crap from a little kid, but I mean, you must be like fifty, or something. Seriously. What's wrong with you?”

No pokes from Amber. She's not here. I didn't realise it until now. Is it working already? Can't be. But she's gone. Has been the whole time.

Muffled voices come from my phone. I set it against my ear, watching the girl. “House? Are you there? What happened?”

“Yeah. It was nothing. Sorry. No ideas.”

“You're lucky I've got better things to do than argue with you, old guy.” She stares for a moment longer, then storms off.

“Why's that girl so mad?” Rachel asks.

I hold the phone away, limping to the nearby bench. “Got a stick up her ass.” I sit down.

“Stick up her... ass?” Rachel climbs off my shoulders and settles beside me.

“Yeah, bottom, backside, butt, bum, anus, rectal orifice.”

“Eww. Really? She's got a stick up there?”

“Apparently.”

“Ohhh. That must hurt.”

“From what I hear, it's not pleasant.”

Phone to my cheek again, Cameron's voice swirls in my ear. “House, we need to come up with something fast.”

The exchange from earlier sinks in now, the same way my back sinks against the bench.“So, the guy's long lost love is a fraud.” I bounce my cane between my knees, letting it crunch through the gravel.

“That's what you're focusing on?”

“Typical House,” Chase says.

“Good for Thirteen. Decades of menial work and three cancers couldn't make him die miserable. She just did.”

“Cancers?” Rachel filters that word from everything I've said. Probably because I used it in relation to her mom earlier. “What's cancers?”

“No, the _truth_ made him miserable,” Thirteen argues.

“Again, it's like there's two of me.”

A tug at my jacket sleeve turns me back to Rachel. “What's cancers?” she repeats, forceful. The look on her face says if I don't defuse this properly, I've got a tantrum on my hands. Oh, joy.

How to explain to a curious caterpillar?

“Inside your body are tiny things called cells.”

Her eyes widen.

“They do all sorts of jobs. Cleaning up, fixing things, fighting bad guys. But sometimes cells turn into bad guys themselves. They start doing things they're not supposed to, causing all kinds of trouble...”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Taking up space, causing roadblocks, dumping trash in the rivers, making the good cells fight each other.”

“Fight each other? How?”

“They're like pirate ships. The good cells blast the bad cells, but their cannons hit other good cells by mistake. Or sometimes...” I pause as the puzzle piece clicks into place. “The bad cells are flying somebody else's flag, causing the good cells to blame the wrong guys.”

And there it is. The answer. The one the team needs.

I put the phone up to my head again. “He's got a teratoma.”

Usually harmless congenital growth that can be filled with almost any kind of tissue. Including primitive cells, which grow like weeds and can become almost anything, turn into tumours, destroy whole organ systems.

“What?” Chase asks. They're probably exchanging confused looks.

“It's filled with primitive cells, some of which developed into brain cells,” I say. “One way to trigger brain symptoms when there's nothing wrong with your brain, have brain cells leaking through your body, provoking an immune response, sounding the alarm to attack all brain cells.”

“The cancer was...”

“Cancer. Just growing so fast it collapsed under its own weight.” I look at Rachel. She has no idea what's going on now. “Cut out the teratoma, what's left of his cancer, he should be fine. Tell him to think of it as his second luckiest day.” I hang up.

Rachel pokes my hand.“You still didn't tell me what's cancer.”

I take a moment. “The cells that turn bad, they're cancer. They build bases, called tumours, where they hide out and make more bad guys, so they can build more bases, so they can make more bad guys, over and over, until they take over the whole body.”

“And then?” she asks like I'm telling a story.

“And then we try to beat the bad guys with medicine, but different bad guys need different medicine. And sometimes the medicine we have to use can make you sick.”

“Like Mommy?”

“Like Mommy.”

A normal person would tell her it's going to be okay. I can't. Because I don't know that. And the truth is more important than false hope.

* * *


	7. The Fix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> House fends off curiosity about the new "fix" for his pain and deals with Rachel's questions about Cuddy's condition.

22 April

Wilson holds out the prescription. I take it so he won't suspect anything. His eyes turn to the ventilator, watching it for a few moments before he settles into the chair next to me.

“You know,” he says after a while.

Great. Got a feeling I'm not going to like this.

“It's not easy... especially when it's someone you love, but...” His breaths are uneven. “I think... I think it's time to start preparing for the worst.”

My fingers tighten around my cane handle. “No.” It's come out before I realise I sound like a defiant toddler.

“I'm worried about you.” His arm lifts from his side, like he wants to set it on mine, but thinks better of it.

“That's sweet.” I want to head for the door. Cuddy's unconscious. This would hardly count as abandoning her. She doesn't need me right now. She'll recover just the same if I'm not here.

“House... I'm serious. I don't want to see you back in Mayfield... or worse.”

“There's something worse than Mayfield?”

He returns a solemn stare. I glance away.

“I'm not letting you go through this alone.” He finally clutches my wrist, his jaw hardened with determination.

I narrow my eyes at him, a silent command to keep off. “What if that's what I want?”

* * *

23 April

I toss the oversized tennis ball to Rachel.

She catches it in both hands, grinning. “I got it!”

“Yeah. I can see that.” I swivel in my chair. “Now throw it back.”

She winds her arm behind her.

“Carefully,” I add.

Just as the ball goes into the air, the office door swings open and draws my attention. It's Thirteen. The ball smacks me in the chest..

“It's daytime,” she remarks.

“Oh, is that why the sun's up?” I take the ball in one hand and pass it to the other. “I was confused.”

She rolls her eyes and glances at Rachel who's toddling off into the conference room. “Rachel's here, I mean.”

“Babysitter has the flu.” I watch her stop at the whiteboard and scribble, then I stand up, turning back to Thirteen. “Which is why I'm looking to fill the position. You've got perfect timing.”

“Found a case.” She lifts a folder from her side. Interesting that she was so quick. Either Wilson put her up to it—worried I'll fly to pieces without a puzzle—or she's just desperate for something to do. Or a bit of both.

“Seizures,” she says after a moment.

“That all?”

“She works at a weapons development compound. Thought you might find that interesting.” She drops the folder on my desk.

I bend over to snatch my backpack from the floor.

“Could be karma.” she adds, causing me to glance up.

“Her seizures are the result of bad karma?” I continue before she can say anything. “You're right. Intriguing.” I sling the strap over my shoulder. “Whether or not you actually believe in karma, that is. Do you?”

“Well, I think if you spend your days designing ever more effective ways to blow people up, stuff's bound to come back to you.”

“If only the universe operated under such simple laws.”

Rachel draws a misshapen blob person with stick legs, not so much as glancing back at us.

“I need to do something,” I say. “Keep an eye on her.”

“Skipping out on your parental duties already?”

“Well, that doesn't apply seeing as how I'm not her parent... and, it's only for about half an hour.”

“Looks like I don't really have a choice.”

I go into the other room, Thirteen trailing, and kneel beside Rachel. Yes, I'm able to kneel without collapsing in agony. Thirteen's noticed. “This is Dr Thirteen.” I over-enunciate the words. “She's going to play with you for a bit.”

“Okay.” Rachel nods.

“Make sure she limits her artwork to the whiteboard.” I start out of the room, pausing in the doorway to cast a backward glance. “Have fun.”

Thirteen looks at her, then me, with one of those cryptic expressions halfway between annoyance and amusement.

I stick up my cane at her. “And don't pretend you don't like the idea.”

Must be bittersweet. She likes kids, but obviously won't ever have any of her own. She's too smart for that, not selfish enough.

* * *

I feel stupid holding Cuddy's hand. She doesn't know we're here.

“MRI was clean.” Thirteen comes in with Rachel in tow.

Rachel lets go of her and charges over, climbs up on my lap. Her elbow jabs into my leg. My bad leg. Wilson scrutinises as I bear the discomfort, arms floating out from my sides awkwardly.

“Huh. Looks like the little cub's getting attached to the grumpy old bear,” he says.

“Shut up.” I let my arms down, Rachel digging in again with her elbows and knees, settling into a comfortable position. Comfortable for her, that is.

She looks at Wilson. I can only see the back of her head, but I imagine she's twinkling with curiosity. “Will you play too?”

His smirk from before is wiped off and replaced with bewilderment. Serves him right. “Play what?” he asks.

“Give them sprinkles!” She mimes a pitching motion.

Hm. Is that what she's calling it?

His eyes narrow towards me. “What is 'give them sprinkles'? Do I even want to know?”

“Adorable,” Thirteen interjects, drawing our attention.

“What?” we both ask at the same time.

“You guys.” She can't seem to stifle a smile. “You make a cute family.”

“I know.” I throw on an exaggerated tone. “Wilson's the mommy.”

He scoffs. “Very funny.”

“Wilson's not Mommy.” Rachel turns around to scold me with a frown.

“Aww, don't you like Wilson?” I ask mockingly. “You'll make him cry.” I rub my eyes.

“Will not,” he says. Rachel doesn't notice.

“No, no! Stop!” She swats me, then climbs down, pats Wilson's arm. “Don't cry, Wilson. I like you.”

Thirteen's getting a good chuckle out of this.

“I'm okay,” he tells her. “I like you too.” He gives her a pet on the head and she juts her chin up, beaming. Just like a little retriever. No wonder she took to clicker training so well.

“Since the MRI was clean,” I redirect to the case. “Nothing left to do now but throw on your tactical gear and break into the compound. Might want backup. Get Chase and Cameron.”

Thirteen's eyes glint with amusement while Wilson cocks his head to the side, electing not to comment.

She starts to leave, but stops when I speak again.

“Don't get shot.”

She turns.

“Don't get shot!” Rachel repeats. How cute.

“All right,” Thirteen says. “But we're not breaking in. I'll ask if we can search her office.”

I bounce my cane. “And I thought you were fun.”

“I thought you were fun,” Rachel says. Her obnoxious mimicry provokes a chortle from Wilson and a curve of lips from Thirteen before she heads out.

“I'm gonna get something to eat.” Wilson stands, goes in the same direction. Before I can say anything, he interrupts. “Don't worry,” he says, without looking back. “I'll get enough for two.”

* * *

“Oh, excuse me, Dr House.” An unfamiliar man greets me as I come out of the bathroom. He looks at me, then the door, then back at me. Clearly confused about the lady on the door.

“ _Eigo wakarimasen_ ,” I mutter.

Not falling for that I see.

“I'm a co-worker of Wendy Lee's,” he says, walking beside me. “I'm also her boyfriend.”

“Great. I'm a guy who doesn't care.”

“She's your patient.”

“Oh, you thought I didn't know who Wendy Lee was?” I step into the elevator, press the button with my cane. He follows. “Yeah, makes sense. I'm not good at names.”

“Did Dr Fortune tell you? Her last boyfriend was a real nut. He's basically stalking her.”

“See, this is what I don't care about.” The elevator lurches into motion. “I don't care who cares about her.”

“I think I know what's wrong with her,” he says, like he hasn't heard a word I've said.

“You screwed up in the lab and accidentally spilled some bomb on her?”

“No. I think she was poisoned.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

Apparently he can't detect sarcasm very well. Maybe that's a symptom of something. The doors open. I step out.

Still following. “Her ex is another co-worker. He's been pissed off ever since she broke up with him for me.”

“Hm. Wonder why.” I open my office door. The team are waiting in the conference room, Chase and Cameron at the table, Thirteen on the floor with Rachel, going through a picture book. “Oh, wait. People tend to do that in relationships, don't they? Jealousy is a thing, right?”

He sighs.

“If you had any evidence, you'd be going to the cops, which tells me this is just a theory based on a fairly normal reaction to being ditched for another co-worker.” I limp through, towards the other room. “Oh, and it's not really stalking when you work together.”

“Was that the boyfriend?” Cameron asks as I step in.

“Yeah. Thinks she's been poisoned by a stalker. Apparently, it's unusual for a guy to get upset when his girlfriend dumps him and hops onto the next nerd in the building.”

“Regardless of the likelihood, it's not poison,” Thirteen says. “When we tested her blood and CSF for toxic exposure they were negative for everything we could think of.”

“Well, that just leaves everything we didn't think of.” Chase drums his fingers on the table.

“She works in a bomb factory,” Cameron says. “Couldn't hurt to start activated charcoal, see what happens.”

* * *

25 April

Most of the day is spent watching Cuddy's ventilator rise and fall to the beat of the droning heart monitor in between listening to the team argue over whether the patient is an alcoholic because of the empty booze bottles found at her place.

She's on diazepam for the seizures and morphine for the abdominal pain caused by pancreatitis. Alcoholism, a UTI allowed to run rampant and attack her kidneys, or poisoning. All theories that are diagnostically boring.

* * *

I pull back the plunger and draw the colourless solution from the vial. There's no where to set it. Should have left my backpack open.

_Ting. Clatter._

“Shit,” I say under my breath.

The vial rolls off somewhere under the toilet. Now I'll have to sanitise it for next time.

My jeans are hanging from the handicap rail to the side. My backpack is lodged there too. I stretch and grab the swab packet I've laid out on top of my jeans, tear it open using my teeth. The paper floats to the tile and the scent of alcohol wafts out. It's cold to the skin.

After drawing a big circle across my thigh, I toss aside the used swab and palpate the muscle, or lack thereof. A few seconds to dry. Then I pretend I'm shooting a dart. On the third stroke, I plunge the needle in with a sting.

The bathroom door swings open and closed. Footsteps come near the stall. Babbling. Sounds like a kid. Another stall closes. I don't look away from the syringe barrel.

No blood when I pull back the plunger. Good. Haven't hit any vessels. I push down. It's all in.

I reach around and balance the used syringe on the back of the toilet, take the leg exerciser from my backpack.

_Clatter._

The syringe rolls off too. Dammit.

“What was that?” The kid sounds remarkably like Rachel.

 _Clang_.

The stall door. It's wide open. The lock doesn't work. Thirteen's in the opening.

“Did you follow me?”

“Rachel had to pee. This is the ladies' room,” she says, not quite a question.

“Exactly. Almost no chance of encountering Wilson in here. Or Foreman, or Chase. Cameron maybe, you apparently, but...” I sigh instead of finishing.

Humming comes from the next stall.

“This is what you've been doing.”

“Either get in here and close the door, or get out.”

She takes a moment to digest it, ends up choosing the first option. Her eyes skim the stall, taking in the scattering of injection paraphernalia, then the strap on my leg, then they stop, lingering in one place.

Great. I didn't even think. Only a handful of people have ever seen it. I'd grab my jeans and cover myself, but it seems pretty pointless now. And would only be pathetic. “Just gonna stare like a pervert?”

“S—sorry.” Her gaze shifts from the disgusting, hollowed out log that's my right thigh. “That's not morphine... or heroin.”

She's likely deduced from the lack of bloody backflow into the syringe, and from the positioning of the injection mark that I wasn't shooting into a vein.

“Pain's bad again. And more opioids could mean a rubber room.” I lift my leg against the tension of the strap. “Don't have many choices. This seemed like the smartest one.”

She's quiet. Either she thinks I'm a moron, or still has no idea what's going on. “Everything okay, Rachel?” she calls.

“Yes!” The toilet paper rolls and rolls. Someone's having fun.

Thirteen suddenly squeezes into the tight space beside me and crouches.

“Careful now. They might not believe you if you're reported for sexual assault a second time.”

Her eyes glint up at me. Then her hand rises with the vial. “Compound CS-804?” she reads the label aloud, backing to her previous distance.

I resume the leg exercise. “It's an experimental drug that's supposed to regrow muscle.”

“All done!” The toilet in the next stall flushes.

“Okay, wash your hands!” she calls to Rachel, then takes a moment to mull over my reply. “Why have I got the feeling it's not been approved for human trials yet?”

Rachel's pattering over to the sinks is unmistakable.

“Doesn't matter.” I grunt, pulling against the tight strap again and again. “It's groundbreaking. Huge success.”

Water runs.

“In rats, I assume.”

“Well, they've got four legs. Think how fast it should work on one.”

She leans against the side of the stall. “If you're so sure this is a great idea, why hide it from Wilson?”

No mention of Cuddy because everyone knows her plate is already full.

“You know Wilson. He gets his undies in a knot over crap like this.”

“True.” She pushes the door open with her shoulder. “But I think you're just ashamed.”

* * *

26 April

“My throat hurts,” Cuddy manages hoarsely. She looks around the room, then at me, Rachel, and Wilson beside her bed. She reaches towards the bedside tray.

“You were intubated.” I fill a cup with water from the pitcher, then offer it. She doesn't have to thank me, the look in her eyes as she gulps the cup dry is enough.

“How you feeling, Mommy?” Rachel bounces her toy elephant on the edge of the bed.

“I'm all right, honey, just tired.” Cuddy sets down the cup and brushes her daughter's cheek.

“Tired? But you were sleeping a lot.”

She turns to me. “How long was I out?”

“Little over a week.”

“What happened?”

Wilson is decidedly silent about that.

“Flash pulmonary oedema sent you into respiratory and cardiac arrest. Code team resuscitated you, but had to put you on a ventilator.”

She watches me, mulling it over.

“It was my fault.” My tongue feels like a dry log in my mouth. “I pushed you too hard.”

Her eyes spark with disbelief. I can't tell her the rest. That I actually have no idea what I was doing when it happened. Or what else I might have injected her with.

Rachel interrupts. “I wanna see a real elephant.” She clings to the bed railing with one hand and leans herself back and forth.

I squeeze Cuddy's fingers. “It's not over.”

She gazes at the clear sky through the window behind us, then faces me again. “I don't...” Her voice falters. A tear threatens to fall. “I don't know if I want to do the second round.”

Wilson scolds me with his eyes. He knows I'll force her. And I will. But only because the alternative is even more idiotic.

“Wanna see a real elephant,” Rachel repeats. She's still rocking on the railing. “You promised.”

Wilson stands, pats her head. “Sorry, sweetie,” he says, easing her to let go, “but I don't think your mommy is quite up to a trip to the zoo just yet.”

“No,” Cuddy croaks out. “She's been begging me for weeks.”

He raises a brow.

“Call Julia. She'll take her.”

I pull out my phone.

“Really?” Rachel's face lights up, then scrunches after a moment. She latches onto my cane.“But I wanna go with House.”

I tuck the phone back into my suit jacket.

“And Wilson!” She grabs his hand too.

“If...” Cuddy hesitates. “If you don't mind... it would mean a lot to me.”

“Sure.” I lean down and kiss her cheek. I won't argue with her now.

“I'll be okay,” she says. “Let her have fun.” She turns to Wilson. “But you don't have to go.”

“No, it's fine.”

* * *

“She's had a heart attack. We need to implant an automated cardio defibrillator,” Chase says.

“Fibillator.” Rachel swings my hand out with hers. “That's a funny word.”

“Go ahead.” I press the elevator button with my cane.

“Obviously, it's only buying us a little time to figure out what's wrong with her.” He squints. “Are you going somewhere?”

“The zoo!” Rachel hops in place.

He looks at Cameron and Thirteen. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.” The doors come open.

“It's for Cuddy,” Wilson says as we step in.

They're all quiet.

“Call me if you've got any ideas.” I press for the ground floor.

* * *

Rachel swings between us, hanging from each of our hands, pretending she's a monkey. We must look pretty stupid and my limp doesn't help. Wilson's eyes dart to my leg every so many steps along the path. Probably thinks I don't notice. He wants to probe me about something.

“There they are!” Rachel lets go of us and rushes up to the African elephant enclosure. “Look! They're so big!” She points and bounces beside the plaque. “Elephants are the best!”

A little boy, about five, turns to her. “Na-uh. Lions are the best.”

“Elephants are bigger!”

“But lions have sharp claws and teeth.”

The exchange provokes a smile from Wilson as we approach more slowly.

“You're not on oxy,” he remarks. The kids' chattering fades into the background. “Thirteen found the whole unused bottle in your desk.”

“Too lazy to rifle through my crap yourself?”

He barely acknowledges that with a faint twitch of his brow. “You're suddenly coping so much better. Easiest explanation would be you've found something stronger.”

“This is why you came. To watch me walking around, confirm your theory.”

He takes a moment to respond. The space allows the little boy's voice to stand out. “A lion would win!”

“And keep an eye on you,” he finally says.

“Oh, right. 'Cause I'm gonna go and score a big bag of heroin with a three-year-old along for the ride.”

“It wouldn't be that surprising, really.”

I scoff. “Give me some credit.”

The largest elephant raises its trunk and bellows. Rachel hops up and down on top of the bench at the enclosure wall..

“Come on, Jackson, we're leaving.” The boy's mom calls.

“Okay.” He groans, then runs off.

Rachel turns. “I'm thirsty.”

“Then we'll go and get some drinks.”

“But I'm not done.” She looks over the back of the bench again.

I exchange a glance with Wilson. No explanation necessary. “I'll be right back,” he volunteers.

I sit on the bench. My phone goes off. The team.

“Wendy's bleeding from her anus, mouth, and vagina now,” Cameron begins.

“My favourite kind of report. Blood gushing from all orifices. Any breathing issues?”

“No, but... we're not sure it's internal,” Chase says.

“If it's coming from both ends, it's internal.”

“Her gums look like they were burned.”

“What about this?” Thirteen asks.

“She's looking through some case files,” Cameron says for my benefit.

“28-year-old woman presenting with burn-like wounds in her mouth and oesophagus from a candidiasis infection.”

“Interesting.” I switch my phone to my other hand and other ear. Rachel's still standing beside me, looking over the back of the bench, watching the elephants. “Might even be relevant if the woman had had seizures and it was flowing out the other side too.”

“If the fungus had entered her bloodstream—”

Chase interjects. “Would have seen it in the blood work.”

“Acute myeloid leukaemia can cause swelling in the gums.”

“She doesn't have a history of blood diseases in her family, her blood count's normal, and she hasn't been exposed to chemical toxins.”

“Not that we know of.”

“The person that she works most closely with is also her boyfriend,” Cameron says. “You don't think he would have told us if there had been some sort of chemical spill or accident?”

“You know, there is one other cause of AML,” Thirteen says. “I've seen some reports that their company was developing tactical nuclear warheads.”

Ionizing radiation. “Start the treatment.” I hang up.

Rachel plops down, looks at me like she's sorting a jigsaw puzzle in her head. “That kid...”

“Yeah?” I tuck my phone away.

“He said his cat beat up a mouse.” Her focus isn't on the elephants behind us any more. “The mouse was hurt... and it died.”

Oh great. The big talk. Really shouldn't be me giving it.

“What's that mean?” she asks.

But... you know... it might be a good thing. This might work.

“It stopped living,” I say. “It's like going far away and never coming back.”

She squints for a moment. “Is that what happens when animals get hurt?”

“Not always.”

The elephants bellow again.

“But everything dies.”

She looks at a family walking past us. “Even people?

“Afraid so.”

Her eyes get big. “Even... Mommy?”

* * *

The signal in front turns red. Its glow blends with the final glare from the setting sun. “I caught the end of your little discussion with Rachel earlier.” Wilson eases the car to a stop.

We left the zoo a while ago, stopped to get something to eat, let Rachel tire herself out. He's had plenty of time to inform me of this, but I'm guessing he didn't want to start lecturing me in front of the little one.

“Can't say I find your idea shocking,” he says, “but it's a new low.”

“Wait... new low?” I peek in the rear-view mirror. Rachel lies across the seat, breathing deeply. “Isn't that exaggerating?”

The light turns green. It's clear ahead. _MMMBop_ rings out from my jacket pocket before he can comment further. He gives me an unamused sideways glance, then pushes down on the gas pedal. The car drags forwards.

“Inflammation of the genitals,” Cameron says on the other end.

“Wow, might wanna get Chase to help with that instead of me.”

“Wendy's.” She sighs. “Means we were wrong.”

“I'm not so sure about that,” Chase argues. “The seizures have stopped. Her fever's gone away. She's improved.”

“By luck.”

“Oh, no, don't you two start fighting now. You're gonna make me cry and snot all over Wilson.” I lean towards him.

He raises a brow, stops us at another intersection. This time he flips the turn signal.

“What else has been different since you started the treatment?”

“Her boyfriend hasn't been around her,” Thirteen says after a moment.

“Poisoning.” I shift in my seat.

“What? I thought we agreed the theory about the ex was crap,” Chase says.

“It's not the ex.” Thirteen rips the words from my head.

“Best way to avert suspicion from yourself. Put it on someone else before anyone even suspects you. Pressure him.” I hang up.

* * *

Rachel rushes ahead of me, tosses herself against Cuddy's bed. “Mommy.”

“What's wrong, honey?” Cuddy hugs her. “Didn't you have fun at the zoo?”

She's quiet, latched on until I'm at the rail. She draws back, tears welling. “Don't die,” she whimpers.

Shock slams into Cuddy.

“Take the medicine again... please. So you won't die.”

Shock turns to ire that sears straight through me.“You told her?” Cuddy's tone is what I imagine it would be if I'd given Rachel a chainsaw to play with.

“What was I supposed to do?” I ask. “Lie to her?”

“She's three!”

I tilt my cane. “And smart enough to know the truth.”

Rachel rubs her eyes. “Are you mad, Mommy?”

“No, no, sweetie.” Cuddy softens towards her, touches her hand. “Not at you.”

“At House?”

“Why don't you take your elephant and play over there for a bit?” She points to the window.

“His name's Mr Trunk,” Rachel mumbles, rubbing the toy against her cheek.

“Of course it is,” I say. “Can't believe Mommy didn't know that.”

The exasperation etched into Cuddy's face deepens. She watches Rachel toddle off, waits for her crouch in the corner, babbling to Mr Trunk, then turns to me again. “It wasn't your choice.”

“Why not? Not my daughter? Not my cancer?”

“That's beside the point, but yeah!” She raises her voice as far as her recently intubated throat will allow. Rachel peeks over.

“She deserved to know.” I meet her glare head on.

“Oh, no, don't you dare pretend this is about what she deserves. You just wanted to manipulate me like you always do,” she says. “You could've at least had the decency to leave her out of it.”

She's not wrong. But she's not entirely right either.

“She'd hate you one day if you lied to her about this.”

She looks at Rachel, still chattering, sitting cross-legged, raising the elephant's trunk and flapping his ears.“Maybe so, but I'd rather she hate me. I don't want her scarred.”

“Life leaves us all scarred. Not even the best mom in the world can protect her from that.”

A moment passes. She doesn't remark.

“I just want you to live, dammit.”

Her scowl melts, replaced by helplessness. “So do I.”

“Then finish what we've started.”

“You make it sound like it's a sure thing, like I've got a choice.”

The uncertainty and indifference are a rake across my internal organs. I can't hold in the harshness. “It's better than doing nothing. We haven't even got the scans yet.”

She trembles. “I'm afraid.”

“I know.” My thumb brushes her knuckles.

She looks at Rachel again, then out the window to the lights glowing against the night sky, mulling it over. “If I do it... I want you to do something for me.”

“Tell me and it's done.” I slide my hand from hers and pull one of the chairs closer.

“I doubt it.”

“Won't know if you don't tell me.” I sit down.

“You'll think it's stupid... and this is not how I imagined I'd—not that I've imagined it much before.” She blinks longer than normal. “I want to get married,” she blurts.

The muscles in my brow region draw tight. Not what I was expecting.

“I knew it.” A deep breath heaves out. “Forget it. I know how you feel about marriage... it's no big—”

“No,” I cut in, still not quite sure of my own intentions.

She studies me, her lips parting and sealing a few times before she decides not to say anything else.

Marriage is pointless, sure, and when you look at Wilson's string of disasters, only a complete moron would even consider it. But it matters to her.

“Why now?” I ask after a moment.

She hesitates. “You know why.”

“So... you wanna get hitched now 'cause you think this is it.”

She wipes her wet streaked cheeks. “Not the way I would've put it, but... yeah.”

“Interesting.”

Her eyes probe mine for any indication of my thoughts.

“You just got done telling me it's not my cancer, Rachel's not my kid. But you know what marriage means. Or what it's supposed to mean.”

“I'm sorry. That was stupid. Of course, I know this affects you too,” she says. “But about Rachel... it's just... you don't like kids.”

I glance at Rachel again just in time for her to peer at me. Her eyes are like ravenous black holes pulling all matter towards them in some attempt to assimilate the secrets of the universe. She's not boring. Not like before.

“On average, not so much.” I turn back to Cuddy. “But adults usually suck too.”

“So...?” She trails off, too squeamish to repeat the request.

Our eyes stay locked for several moments of silence.

“No,” I say.

It's like she's been hit in the chest and had her air knocked out. Then the surprise gives way to dejection. She faces the floor. “It's fine. I understand.” She says that more for her benefit than mine. “I shouldn't expect you to sacrifice your principles for me.”

“It's not that.”

She waits for the rest.

“I won't do it because you're not going to die.”

She ruminates for a couple of seconds. “Meaning what exactly?”

I turn to find Rachel approaching.

“Are you sad again, Mommy?” She stops beside me, touches the bed rail.

“No, I'm okay, sweetie.” Cuddy tries to will away the redness around her eyes.

“Are you gonna take the medicine?”

“You shouldn't worry about that.” Cuddy pats her hand, quivering voice betraying her words.“Everything's going to be okay.”

Rachel abandons the rail to climb on me.

“If you really want to do it...” I say finally, adjusting to the new addition to my lap. “It can wait.”

Rachel sags against my arm. It's getting to be about her bed time.

“What if...” Cuddy hesitates. “What if it can't?”

“It can.” I grab her hand again. “We'll do it right. When you're over this. When it's all behind us.”

* * *


	8. After Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Remix of S7.E22 "After Hours", focusing entirely on House] House is confronted with the negative consequences of the experimental drug and proceeds to deal with it on his own, while the Cuddy situation comes to an unexpected climax.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning : Death

8 May (Two Weeks Later)

I throw on my pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt and swing the bathroom door open to find Rachel jumping on the bed. Her eyes meet mine and she pauses. She's waiting for me to say something. Cuddy would scold her. I just dry my hair with the towel and continue into the room. She resumes bouncing, the mattress creaking.

My wallet's not on the bedside table. Not on the floor, not on the dresser. I check my jeans on the rack in the bathroom. Not there. I know I took it out before my shower. It's no where in sight.

I look at Rachel again from the doorway. She stops. There's a certain glint in her eye.

“Did you move my wallet?”

She glances to either side before answering nonchalantly. “No.”

“Well, seeing as how I know where I put it,” I begin, limping over to the bed. “And wallets can't get up and walk...” I lift her by the sides to bring her to eye level. “...and you're the only one here...”

A smile breaks across her face under my intense stare. “I dropped it.”

“Might I ask where?” I set her back on the mattress, sitting this time.

“Back there.” She points to the wall behind the headboard.

Great. “Wallets aren't for playing with.” I crouch and peer under the bed. Too dark. Have to move the whole thing. I grip the sides of the frame, Rachel watching.

“Is it heavy?”

“For someone your size.” With a grunt, I pull backwards. The bed slides a few inches. Searing heat shoots through my thigh. Cramp. Shit. Too late. The muscle gives out. I fall to the floor.

“Are you okay?” Rachel swings her legs above me.

“Yeah.” I brace myself against the bed frame and stand. Must've distributed the weight wrong. Need another dose. It's not working fast enough.

I fetch my wallet from the crevice. It's easier pushing the bed back than it was pulling it.

“You should brush your teeth.” I head into the bathroom for my backpack. It's on the hamper. I wasn't going to leave that out with Rachel.

“Do I have to?”

“Yeah, otherwise your Mommy will find something heavy and hit me repeatedly. It's almost bed time,” I call, unzipping the bag.

“Really? She'll do that?”

“Yup.”

“Oh no.” She patters off to get her toothbrush from the hall bathroom.

The vial's empty. Looks like we'll be making a late evening visit to the lab first.

* * *

“Dr House...?” Riggin rolls his stool out from his desk, squinting at Rachel as I lead her into the lab.

“My babysitter wasn't answering her phone.”

“Oh, um... okay.”

Riggin's eyes flit to Rachel every couple of seconds as she stares at the rats, the microscopes, the computers. “As long as she doesn't touch anything.”

“So, I figured you'd be wrapping up the trial and wanted to congratulate you personally.”

Rachel's hand slides from mine and she steps up to one of the rat cages.

“What's his name?”

“Um... specimen 18.” Riggin hurries over, nudges her arm away. “Don't touch the rats, please.”

“That's a funny name.”

He frowns at me. Clearly, I'm supposed to have her on a leash.

“So, what's next?” I grab Rachel's hand again. “The Nobel Prize?”

“Yeah... about that...” Riggin looks at the other rat cages. “Unless they're thinking of awarding it for developing an incredibly expensive poison, it's not very likely.”

There's a sinking feeling. My heart rate spikes. I don't let it show. “What do you mean? What happened?”

He fetches a scan from a drawer and presents it. A dozen or so bright spots against the dark, it's clear before he says the next word. “Tumours.”

“Did you give them medicine?” Rachel asks.

Riggin flashes her a dismissive glance, then moves the scan. “Just look at these things.”

I shift my weight off my bad leg. “Any indication the rats were getting sick?”

“Just some cramping.” He puts the scan back in its folder, then back in the drawer of his desk. “Their legs would stiffen up. They started having trouble moving around.” The drawer slides closed. “We thought their bodies were adjusting to the increase in muscle mass, but within a day or so, they just started dying.”

“That's sad,” Rachel says.

“Sure is.” I try to sound unconcerned.

“Yeah.” Riggin returns to us. “But we've got a new compound to play with next week.”

And that's it. Good news for the trial. Not for me.

* * *

“You're going in that?” Rachel peers at the MRI.

“Yup.” I pass her my cane.

“Why?”

“Need to take a picture of my leg.” I climb on, lie down.

“Why? Does it hurt?”

Worst part about her talking now. The endless questions.

“Cameras take pictures,” she announces after a moment, hands on her hips, giving me a look like she's lecturing an idiot who believes eating mouldy bread is the same as taking antibiotics.

“This is like a _big_ camera. Only it shows your insides.” I press the button.

“Eww.” She scrunches her face as the tray whirs and reels me into the tube.

Once it clicks into place, the machine starts. I hold still.

_Woosh. Woosh. Woosh. Woosh. Woosh._

“That's noisy!” Rachel calls.

_Woosh. Woosh. Woosh. Woosh. Woosh._

After a few more moments, it stops and the tray whirs back out.

“All done?” Rachel's curious stare greets me on the outside. She extends my cane.

“All done.” I take it.

“That wasn't so bad.” She puts her hand out again, open this time, expecting mine. It's becoming a habit. I realise that as I let her tiny fingers wrap around my much larger ones.

“Now what?” she asks.

“We get the pictures and go home.” I lead her into the control room.

“Then what?”

“We get you to bed,” I add, glancing at her. “And you don't tell Mommy.”

She smiles. “Okay.”

The scans are loaded on the screen. Exactly like the rats. Three white masses glaring in contrast to the dark. So much for an alternative to Vicodin or oxy.

There's a squeeze at my fingers. “Is something the matter?”

'Yes' would be an understatement. But I can't say that. Even if she weren't three years old. There's only one thing I can do now. Try to fix it.

“We're gonna make a little stop at the pharmacy first,” I say finally. “Remember... this is our little secret.”

“Okay,” she answers in cheerful compliance.

It's going to be a long night.

* * *

I shift in the tub, surface cool against my legs. All the necessary tools are laid around me. I consult the scan a final time, comparing the location of the masses to the swath of iodine on my skin. Should be able to do it with a single incision.

“Miss me?” Amber lifts the handle of the scalpel and lets the blade scrape across the tray.

My eyes flick to the emptied syringe of morphine.

“Funny, isn't it? How I'm back not ten minutes after you shot up.”

Not gonna talk to her. She's not real.

“Think it's really the drugs? Could be... or maybe not. Maybe it's just whatever makes sense to you.”

_Scratch. Scratch._

Metal on metal provokes a cringe response I can't control.

“Either way,” she says, “with all the stupid stunts you've pulled, your brain is fried, wiring permanently altered.”

_Scratch. Scratch._

I rattle out two oxycodone onto my palm, pop them in my mouth. I can't risk any more. I wash it down with a gulp of gin that burns its way down my throat.

_Scratch. Scratch._

My jaw clenches. Gotta do this quick. I snap on the gloves. Quick and precise. I rip the scalpel from Amber's hand.

“Wow. In such a hurry to carve yourself like a Christmas ham.”

The blade's poised above the target. Here goes. I will myself to focus on the lingering burn in my chest and not the ripping of the blade sinking in, red pushing out.

 _Snap._ There's a sting at the back of my neck. The cut veers off. “Dammit!”

Amber takes a step back, eyes flaring. She twirls the tourniquet in her hand.

“Get out! Get the hell out!”

Her lips curve. “Sorry. This is just too delicious.”

Something halfway between a heat and a heavy weight wraps itself around me and constricts. She can't get to me. I won't be helpless.

I force a hard swallow and pry the skin apart. Gory sinew. My teeth dig into my lip to keep me from crying out. My muscles tighten, every breath shallow and trembling. Morphine wasn't enough.

“Maybe you should've loaded a syringe full of fentanyl. If you nodded off, or OD'd, no big deal, right? We both know death is starting to look really attractive.”

“Death is meaningless,” I grunt out. “Life is all there is.”

“Oh, right... even when Cuddy is gone?”

I force my fingers in against the gushing blood, against the explosion of agony that wrenches me about despite every effort to hold still. Gotta get through this. Gotta get through. Chanting in my head keeps the groans soft.

“If I wanted to die, I'd leave the tumours in!”

“Nah, too slow and miserable.” She stretches out the tourniquet, lets it snap back.

Something solid. I shift the mirror. There it is. Feet digging into the sides of the tub, I brace myself for the cut.

“You're hoping this fails. After all, reckless surgery isn't suicide.”

“If I wanted to die...” I throw a scowl at her, muscles tensed. “Why the hell would I care if it's suicide?”

“I dunno... somewhere in that tangled web of a psyche, there's a shred of concern.”

I dig the scalpel in. The pressure builds. My eyes close. An involuntary sound wells up. I catch it in my throat, push it out as a string of hitching breaths.

 _Snap._ She flicks the rubber again. “For Wilson, maybe?” _Snap._ “But that's oddly hypocritical because motives don't matter, right? Only results. The pain for Wilson would be the same, regardless of how or why.”

“I'm not killing myself!” I manage, shaking. The blade slides through the last strand of tissue holding the mass in place. It squishes loose. I drop the scalpel to the surgical tray with a clang.

That's it. My muscles release. The rending, twisting pain is down from an eleven to an eight. I've got it. I rip it out and flop it into the other tray.

“Congrats.” Amber claps mockingly.

Not done yet. A few long breaths of reprieve is all I can offer myself. Too long and I'll lose my nerve. I tense again, thrust my finger back in my leg before I can think about hesitating. Back to eleven.

“You're not killing yourself _yet_ ,” she says. “But you will.”

“Life is all there is!” I push out again, half choked, groping through the tissue.

It's all I can do to keep my eyes open and on the mirror. They want to clamp shut or go sideways. And I can't see for the blood. I adjust the angle. Flecks of red drip from my glove onto the glass. Shit. It's getting on everything.

“Life is pain,” Amber corrects. “And once Cuddy is gone, you won't want to endure that pain any longer. You're too selfish to hang on for Wilson. Deep down you know that.” _Snap._

Hard mass. Finally.“She's... not... going to die!” I cut, shaking, jerking, panting, sweating, nearly in tears.

 _Splat._ Into the tray.

Another flick of the tourniquet. “Impressive. I thought for sure you'd pass out after the first one.”

It's a torrent now, gushing from the wound, starting to fill the tub. My heel's plugging the drain. Guess it moved there at some point. I shift. The blood gulps and gurgles down, leaving a thin layer of red in its wake.

“How much do you think you've lost?” Amber's voice grates. “One liter? Two?”

“Shut up,” I huff. My body burns from strenuous effort, muscles weak, heart racing, head thumping. What the hell was I thinking? This was stupid.

No, it was logical. The only thing I could do. The masses were close to the surface, fairly small, like removing a wart. Two down, only one to go. I have to finish.

“Going for another round? Nice.”

I focus the mirror where the next one should be. The pain peaks to a staggering high with the plunge of my fingers. I reel against the tub. Can't find it. I can't find it.

“What will Cuddy think when Rachel discovers you here exsanguinated?”

“Not... gonna happen.” Darkness creeps in at the edges of my vision as the room starts to spin. The scalpel turns heavy in my hand, slides from my grasp and clatters beside me. Shit.

“Uh-oh.” Amber scoops up the scalpel and twirls it. “Looks like you're running out of time.”

I've lost too much blood. I can't do this.

I grope for my phone amongst the assorted crap. The bottle of oxy tips over, rolls off. The bottle of gin next. It shatters and splashes against the tile.

“Too bad I can't help you, huh?” Amber becomes a looming blur.

Finally my fingers land on the right shape. The hazy digits of saved contacts are on the screen.

“Hmm... who to call? Wilson, right?” she muses. “No, don't want him to see this.”

Hesitation lasts only a second. I press down.

“Interesting choice.”

_Ring. Ring. Ring._

I focus on my breathing, slow, steady. Gotta stay awake.

“A little busy right now.” Thirteen's voice pours from the speaker, oddly tired. There's talking in the background. Can't quite make it out. Sounds like Chase. And Cameron. And someone else.

“So am I.” I grunt.

“Really not in the mood for your games tonight.”

“I need...” So hard to say. But there's no time. “Need your help,” I manage between ragged breaths.

“Priceless,” Amber taunts.

“Wait, are you serious?” I don't need to see Thirteen's face to know the expression she's making. “What's going on?”

“Just get over here.” I grab the towel off the rack, push it down on the bleeding. “Cuddy's place. Now.”

* * *

The tiles, the tub, the sink, all the shapes in the room meld together. The sensation of the soaked towel fibres hard against my palm and the gnawing ache are the only things holding me here.

There's pounding. No. Running.

“Oh my God.” A figure races towards me.

“Amber? Go away,” I mutter, eyelids drooping.

“House, it's me.” The blur clears enough for Thirteen's face to come into focus. “What the hell were you doing?”

“Tumours.” I fumble for the scan, hold it up. “Seems... neither of us... has luck with experimental drugs.”

She kneels beside the tub and moves the towel up to examine the wound. “You've lost a lot of blood.” She presses it back, takes my pulse. “We need to get you to the ER now.” She stands, pulling out her phone.

“No.” I jolt against the tub. I beg her with my eyes in a way I can't with words. “Finish it.”

“Are you insane?” Her face lights with a genuine and undisguised astonishment. “This isn't an OR. You're going into shock.”

“Already got two out of three.” I roll my head towards the metal tray with the globs of flesh inside. “Only one to go,” I say. “It's right there.” I raise my arm enough to point a half-limp hand. “You can get it.”

She's still, quiet.

“I don't...” I try to catch my breath, leaning my head back against the wall. “...want anyone else to know.”

She sighs. “No time to argue.”

She takes a few steps towards the sink. I expect her to dial 911. She hurriedly scrubs down, grabs a clean towel and comes back. “Might wanna bite down on this.” She passes it to me, bends to fetch the scalpel. Her eyes lock with mine in some sort of unspoken understanding.

“What were...” A reflexive grunt pushes out of me as she presses the towel harder to buy time to glance at the scan. “...you doing when I called?”

“It's complicated.” She drops it to the end table, pulls up the towel, revealing my blood covered leg and drenched boxers.

“Got plenty of time to listen,” I manage before I shove the cloth in my mouth. The stab of her fingers makes me bite down and tense against the tub.

She works fast, but careful. “Cellmate from prison showed up at my door,” she says. “In a condition similar to you, as a matter of fact. Bleeding out from a knife wound.”

Can't really consider her words, but I want her to keep talking. I need her to. Pressure builds in every muscle again, fresh sweat trickling down my face and back.

“Yeah, you're not the first one to refuse the hospital tonight.” She glances over. “Needed to check for clots, so I had Chase bring me the portable ultrasound. We didn't find anything.”

The scalpel slices through. I shake, muffled grunts pouring into the fabric clenched between my teeth.

“Got it.” She draws out the mass. There's a wet flop as it joins the others in the tray.

I spit out the towel. A brief release. A few long breaths punctuate the stream of quick, shallow ones. I can't say anything.

Thirteen wastes no time and flurries to suture the opening. I jolt at each prick of stitching run through my skin, but my eyelids are drooping again. Blackness closes in. So tired.

“Come on, you've gotta stay awake,” she says. “House? Stay with me.”

“House!”

The last thing I hear is her calling my name.

* * *

“I promised her!” Thirteen's voice seeps into my head again.

I'm not dead. Blankets tangle around me. My eyes creep open, bleary. The bedroom. How did she get me here? How long have I been out? The digits come into focus. 1:35. There's a line in my arm. A blood bag and fluids hanging from a stand beside the bed. She made a jaunt to the hospital and back.

Shoes in the hall. The door's open. It's Thirteen stomping back and forth. She doesn't speak for several moments. She's on the phone. Must be Chase on the other end.

She stops in front of the doorway this time, notices I'm awake.

“I've gotta go. Call me back if anything changes.” She clicks before he can argue.

Breath hisses in my ear. Amber is lying on top of the blanket, half-curled beside me. “Bet you thought you got rid of me.” _Puff. Puff._

I ignore her, pull myself up against the headboard. “You didn't call an ambulance.”

“No.” Thirteen walks over, tucking her phone away. There's something in the way she won't look straight at me for a moment. She's questioning her own actions. She's not sure she did the right thing. Chase said something to her.

“Did you tell them?” I ask. “Chase and Cameron.”

She takes a moment to answer, faintly impressed that even bleeding out in the tub I noticed it wasn't only Chase at her apartment. She won't admit that, of course.

“No,” she finally says. “Not my secret to tell.”

“I take it your friend is in the hospital now.”

“Yeah.” She sits at the foot of the bed, facing the opposite wall. She pushes her hair behind her ear, presses her eyelids. “They thought she was bleeding into her brain. Cameron advocated for her, was ready to bring back more clotting factor and drill a burr hole there, but Chase convinced her they needed to get a CT. So with me gone, they took her in.” She sighs. “She was in a drug den when she was stabbed. She'll go back to prison.”

“And you think you've let her down.”

She's quiet for a moment, then turns to me. “More importantly, what were _you_ thinking? You probably lost about two litres of blood.”

“My leg hurt.” That defence rolls out of me like all the other times I've used it. “Vicodin, oxycodone... none of it was working.”

“Not strictly, true,” Amber says.

My eyes dart to her, reclining against the headboard beside me. Her smugness makes my jaw clench. I return to Thirteen, gaze drifting just to the right of her. It's easier to not meet her head-on. “I'm losing my mind, hallucinating.”

She doesn't say anything.

“I didn't know what else to do.”

Still nothing.

“Now who's quiet during an emotional reveal?” Amber shifts, causing the mattress to creak.

I'm not emotional.

I roll the blanket down. I'm in pyjama bottoms. The outline of bandages are visible beneath the fabric. Everything's dry. My boxers were drenched in blood. Which brings a nice thought.

“How exactly did you get me out of the tub and all the way in here?” I give Thirteen a hard stare now. “And don't tell me you undressed me.”

“We're doctors,” she says, unconcerned.

“She must have gone through quite a lot while you were passed out.” A shadow rolls over my face. Amber twirls my cane like a slow pin-wheel. Where did she get it? Or more importantly... where is it for real?

I was mostly joking about the undressing. Though, if I'm honest with myself, just because I've associated with hookers before doesn't mean I'm comfortable having people I work with see me naked. That's actually more awkward than a stranger.

“Better question,” Thirteen interrupts my thoughts. “Why me? Why not Wilson?”

She was prepared to let her cellmate die in her apartment because of a promise. What she's done for me was even more crazy.

Undiluted truth rises to the surface again. “Figured you wouldn't keep telling me how stupid I was.”

“Really?” She crosses her legs. “Haven't I been doing just that?”

“Wilson would never have cut it out.”

Her eyes widen in some degree of disbelief. “I don't know... pretty sure he'd do anything for you.”

“Aww, how romantic,” I say mockingly.

“I'm serious.”

“No.” I glance to the doorway, then back at her. “He'd have called an ambulance.”

Hints of a smile tug at the corners of her mouth.“Is this your version of thank you?”

I keep my eyes on hers, face straight, uncompromising. Only silence passes between us, but the sentiment is clear. Her continued gaze substitutes for 'you're welcome'.

A thud echoes from the hall. Knocking. The front door. Dammit. At this hour there's only one person that could be.

“Oops.” Amber stops twirling. “This should be fun.”

I give Thirteen a look that tells her not to answer it. She doesn't remark or show any intention of moving, but I get the impression she thinks hiding isn't the best solution.

_Knock. Knock._

“House! Open the door!” Wilson's voice reaches into the bedroom. “I know you're in there!”

 _Knock. Knock. Thud. Thump._ “House!”

“He'll give up soon.” I pull the pillow out from my neck and give it a few good punches before stuffing it back behind me. “Then you can go.”

“You know she's not going to leave you.” Amber resumes cane twirling. “Especially not after all you've admitted.”

“You should talk to him,” Thirteen finally says.

No. I won't. I can't.

There's a smacking of bare feet on the wood floor. The knocking stops. Oh, shit. Rachel. He woke her up. She's let him in. No avoiding it now.

A few plods nearer and they're in the doorway. Rachel clutches Wilson's hand, glowering at me with utter obliviousness to the torture she's just invited in. He's half baffled, half exasperated as he digests the sight of Thirteen sat at the foot of my bed and the IV stand beside me.

“I'm just going to sit back and enjoy this,” Amber says.

Like she could do anything else.

“You two have a lot to discuss.” Thirteen stands, smoothing the crease from her jeans. “I'll go.” She starts out, then pauses, Wilson still scowling silently. “Unless...” She glances at Rachel. “You need anything, sweetie?”

“I'm thirsty.” Rachel rubs her eyes drowsily. Her other hand slides from Wilson's and takes Thirteen's instead. They disappear down the hall.

Wilson finally sighs. “I'm afraid to ask.”

“Then don't,” I snap.

“Cameron called. I'm sure you know about the visitor to Thirteen's apartment,” he says. “She thought you must be in trouble because it was the only explanation for why Thirteen would run off, leave her and Chase holding the bag, and refuse to answer any questions.” He makes his way in, surveying his surroundings.

I couldn't do anything to stop him if I wanted to. Nothing's a more irritating, prickling sensation than this sort of helplessness.

The bathroom door is open. The mess inside catches his eye.“I was assuming you OD'd and butt-dialled Thirteen by mistake,” he says, peering for a few moments. “Since you'd die before asking for help, but...”

I cut him off. “I told you I'm not on heroin.”

“Oh, of course, because you'd say if you were.” He shoots me a judgemental glare, then approaches.

_Tap._

I flinch. He notices.

_Tap._

It's Amber striking my cane against the wall.

“Congratulations,” he says. “Looks like you can finally add Thirteen to the list of fellow doctors you've irrevocably warped.”

“Really?” I try to ignore Amber's attempts. “Afraid I don't deserve credit for that.” I scratch my arm near the IV line. “She was already screwed up.”

He doesn't remark, but his face offers some combination of 'that's beside the point' and 'you're one to talk'. More things I've heard too often.

I'm lulled into complacency by the seconds of quiet, thinking he'll actually drop this and go back home, get a few hours of sleep. How unrealistically optimistic. His mouth starts moving again.“You might as well tell me what stupid, insane thing you did because I'm not leaving until you do.”

I let out a deep breath. “Doesn't matter now. It's over.”

 _Tap._ “You might as well spill it all,” Amber says. “Before you dig yourself into a hole so deep you can't climb out.”

Wilson's phone rings. He answers and his features tighten. “What? But... when did—?”

“Or it might already be too late.”

He's got loads of patients, but his eyes tell me it's about Cuddy. “I'll be right over.” He hangs up.

“Emergency?” I try to sound unconcerned.

“Yeah.” He grabs my cane from across the room. “Hope you're able to walk.”

* * *

Wilson keeps the weight off my freshly mangled leg. Embarrassment is the last thing on my mind right now. A pair of nurses shuffle out of the room to meet us. Through the glass, Cuddy heaves with strained breaths, even under an oxygen mask, a layer of sweat glistening from her bluish skin.

“She's stable,” the male nurse reports, fixing on my pyjama bottoms. “We had to perform a pericardiocentesis.”

I swing my cane up, stumbling. “Which one of you idiots did this?”

Wilson steadies me. I push him off, clench against the pain shredding through.

“Sure.” Amber stops in front of the glass. “Blame the nurses.” She turns and leans her back against it. “You know whose fault this really is.”

“We... we....” The girl stammers for a moment before the guy takes the lead. “Her heart rate, BP, and O2 sat were fine. All back within range before the dose. ”

“Elaborate on 'fine'.” I clutch my leg. It's a battle to remain vertical, one I'm losing.

“Around 98bpm, 100/80, and 95%.” He crosses his arms. “Just like the chart specified. I've handled this treatment before.” He looks at Wilson. “We've upped the phenylephrine, started her on furosemide, but BP is still tanking and we can't risk raising her heart rate any more.”

“We could give her another fluid bolus,” the younger nurse offers.

“She's got capillary leak and is struggling to not drown as it is, which I assume is why you're giving her a diuretic, which probably won't help because by the time it starts working, the IL-2 will be running its course. Either way, it seems a bit counter-intuitive, but by all means dump another gallon jug down.”

“House.” Wilson grabs my shoulder “This isn't helping. And you're going to rip your stitches.” He tugs me towards the door. “Come on, she needs to see you. I think that's the most important thing you can do for her right now.”

“He's right.” Amber straightens. “Listen to him, or you'll regret it.”

Why the hell would she care what I'll regret? Is she trying to help me? Or is this just another angle to amuse herself?

Cuddy struggles on the other side of the glass, reaching towards me. I can't argue. I give the nurses a final glare, then let Wilson help me inside and to the chair beside the bed.

I sag into it with a sigh of relief, try to position my leg some way that's less than agony.

“Still expect an explanation at some point,” Wilson says, glancing at where the bandage wrap causes the fabric of my pyjama bottoms to bump up. “But for now I'll order you some more morphine.” He heads back out.

Cuddy fights with her oxygen mask.

I grab her hand, pull the mask up just enough to let her speak.

“Are you okay?” Her words croak out.“What happened?”

“I should be asking you that.” I brush her knuckles with my thumb. “Yeah, I'm fine. You can bitch me out about it later.”

“That's...” She huffs. “That's what I'm worried about...” Her eyes penetrate mine, glazed with fear. “I don't think... there's... going to be a later.”

“So, you got a dose when it should've been skipped. It's gonna be a rough few hours, but it'll be over soon enough. I'm here. You'll get through this.”

“No.” She gasps. “I think this is it.”

“Stop it.” I give her hand a squeeze and lean in. “You're gonna be okay.”

“But you don't believe that.” Amber traces her fingers along the plastic footboard. “Not really.”

“No, no.” Cuddy uses every bit of strength to shake her head. A tear streaks down her cheek.“Call my mom, Julia... I need to see them.”

I clench my muscles as a wave of pain rolls through my thigh. The hand not on hers grips the bed rail and crunches down.“I won't go along with this so you can give up.”

“House... please.” She gapes to catch her breath. I push the mask down. She pries it up a few moments later. “Listen to me, please. I need... to say goodbye.”

A lump rises in my throat and my jaw tightens. I won't let that happen. “You're not going to die.”

“You can't stop it.” Amber grips my shoulder. My stomach turns. Where's the blowing in my ear? The taunting? “She's ready to go.”

“No.” It comes out before I can restrain it. “I won't let her stop fighting.”

Cuddy struggles to raise herself, to latch onto me, too consumed by effort to question. I lift her into my arms, her skin clammy.

She loosens as her breaths rasp out with a rattle. There's a calm in the embrace, a stillness that contradicts the tempo of the heart monitor, the beeps like a galloping horse.

“I love you,” she says.

Over her shoulder, Amber's eyes are different. No flare or flicker of delight, only grim resolve. “Somewhere, deep down, you've known it all along.” Her voice alternates with Cuddy's.

“Rachel... loves you too.”

“It's what this has all been about.”

“Take care of her for me...”

“You need to let go.”

It's a knife to the gut. I can't. I can't be alone again. “No, you're not doing this. You're not doing this to me.” I pull back to meet Cuddy's eyes. They're glassy, unfocused, half-closed. “You can't leave me. I need you.”

_Beep beep beep. Beep beep beep._

“I need you, dammit!”

Erratic spikes flow on the ECG. She's going into v-fib. I lunge to call the code. My leg drags me to the floor, but my cane handle smacks against the button. I discard the cane to the tile, as the wall, the bed rail, anything my body can lean against acts as a crutch.

I steady myself over her and push my hands down on her chest. Again and again. A breath through her lips. Another pump. And another. I keep going. It's not working.

Footsteps and a rolling cart speed towards us. The code nurses and Wilson. They push in, nudge me off, and take over the chest compressions. A bag-mask-valve goes over her mouth.

“Charging.”

The paddles go down.

“Clear.”

The ECG shows a spike, then returns to chaotic wavers.

“Again,” Wilson says. “Go to 360.”

“Charging to 360.”

“Clear.”

Another small spike, then nothing. Wilson gives a shot of epinephrine. Still nothing. He claws through his hair, all of us watching the monitor.

“Again.” I step in.

“Charging.” The nurse holds up the paddles. “Clear.”

A chill swallows me. Time moves in slow motion. My eardrums roar with skyrocketing blood pressure and thump with every heartbeat. I've seen so many weaker patients come back from worse. It can't end like this. There's still so much we haven't done. I didn't marry her.

No response from the shock. The waveforms turn straight and the flatline rings out, a piercing monotone that mutes everything else in the room. The team freeze, pull back from her body.

I lurch forwards. “Again.”

They don't listen. The nurse with the paddles hangs them up.

“No!” I take the paddles, press the button to charge.

Wilson grabs me. I push him off. Another jolt. Nothing. I slam against the cart and scramble for another epinephrine syringe. The nurses stand idly as I stick it in.

Still nothing.

“House.” Wilson touches my arm again.

“No, it's not over.” I lift the paddles and charge them. I push them down on her chest. The solid droning doesn't break.

Then it stops. One of the nurses has turned off the monitor.

“Time of death 3:22AM,” she says.

“No!” I turn to fetch another syringe. This time my leg gives out. The cart starts to roll away under my weight. The nurse stops it. Wilson steadies me, wrests the paddles from me, replaces them with my cane. He grabbed it at some point.

Our eyes lock. I can't stand the look he's giving. It's disgusting. I pull away. The cart rolls out. And she's just lying there, motionless.

How is this possible? How does this make any sense?

* * *


	9. Moving On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> House confronts the bleak reality of losing Cuddy and grapples with whether there's any means of moving on.  
> Warning : Suicidal ideation

The cool, pre-dawn wind rushes against my cheeks, rousing me from the numb stupor that brought me up here. Lights below, from windows, street lights, cars, are all wavering blobs. My fingers tighten around the top of the brick half-wall. She's really gone. That thought sinks in as my mask crumbles, my metaphorical armour splinters to dust and a strangled cry squeezes from my throat.

What the hell am I supposed to feel? What the hell am I supposed to do? The glows streak and intersect, a physical representation of the crap inside that churns in a confusing, nauseating whirlpool of things I shouldn't have done, other things I didn't do, but should have.

Another gust bites at me, brings awareness of the wet leaking from my eyes. I can't stop it. Not now. Amber should mock me. It's expected. Almost desired. But she doesn't. Each pocket of light across the roof to the shadowy fringes is vacant. She's gone too. Even my twisted mind won't keep me company.

All I have is the gnawing in my thigh, deadened, but not erased by morphine. Life is pain. The starless sky looms, empty and inviting. And just like Amber said, I'm asking myself if it's worth it any more, if it would be better to just disappear into the blackness. The nothingness. The peace.

My cane clatters to the tarmac. The concrete digs into my palms as I propel myself up the half-wall. I teeter there for a moment, shoes scuffing. It's a long way down. No chance of failure. All I have to do now is tilt and let go.

My eyes close and another drop squeezes out and down my cheek. I draw in a sharp breath, lean forwards.

A metallic creak comes from behind, followed by a shout. Hands catch me, pull me down at the last second.

There's a moment of staring, of shock and hurt, Wilson clutching my arms as the wind smashes us about. “What are you doing, you idiot?”

I gather my fragmented thoughts into a coherent entity and push his hands off. “What right have you got to stop me?”

His eyes are soft, glistening. “You're my friend.”

“It's fucking stupid,” I say, choking back weakness. “She shouldn't be dead. Not from the IL-2. Maybe fifteen years ago. But not now. And not someone her age.”

His silence communicates agreement.

Somewhere inside, I know the truth. But it's buried under a massive pile of shit and I can't dig it out. So I grab the next best thing. My lip curls in a snarl. “This is your fault.”

He stumbles back a step as if I've shoved him. “What?”

“If you hadn't been so obsessed with whether or not I was shooting up, you wouldn't have left her in the hands of a bunch of incompetent interns.” The words hiss through my teeth. “She'd be alive right now!”

“Oh, right. Lay it all on me.” He turns harsh. “Maybe if _you_ knew how to actually talk to the people who care about you, how to ask for help—”

“There was no help!” I cut him off. “The drugs were—I was hallucinating again! I couldn't trust myself!”

He absorbs it for a second, hands tightening into fists, nostrils flaring. “You idiot!” His voice raises to match mine and rings out over the swishes of traffic. “Damn you, you should have told me!”

“I'd be back in a padded room!”

“Yeah, and getting help, you stupid ass!” He presses closer to me. His breaths burst against my face. “It wasn't about your leg! It was about your inability to deal with emotions like a normal human being!”

My nails dig against my palms, every muscle twitching. “And it's not treatable! You can't fix me, dammit! No one can!”

“So your solution was to turn yourself into a lab rat and hack into your own leg in the bathtub! If you didn't force us all to treat you like a self-destructive child, I could've been there for her when it mattered most! Now she's gone and that's on you, not me!”

He's wrong. But I can't argue any more. Any semblance of retaliation is liquefied in my brain. My teeth grind in a clench, his words seeming to hang in the thick night air. I go for my cane, manage to reach down for it.

Wilson stomps over and positions himself between me and the brick half-wall.

“If you're not gonna let me jump, then get the hell out of the way.” I nudge him.

He glares for a moment, then moves. “Stay off the roof.”

I don't answer. I just limp for the door and leave him behind.

* * *

I stop in front of the glass with my name on it, pause for a moment before going in, sitting down at my desk. It's still dark out. The over-sized tennis ball makes a decent diversion, something to roll around for a few minutes, but there's no reason to be here. Footsteps clack near and in a lapse of rationality, part of me believes it'll be her storming in to nag me like she always does.

But that's stupid. It's Cameron and Chase. I set the ball down, get up.

Their faces when they walk through the door are enough to make me want to choke myself on my cane.

“I'm so sorry.” Cameron's bottom lip trembles. She comes at me, hugs before I can react.

Awkward. I roll my eyes, arms loose. “How's your patient?” Better to change the topic.

“Parasitoma. She's on metronidazole. She'll be fine.” Chase is like a sad puppy, not an ounce of the jealousy he'd once shown for Cameron's warmth towards me. He puts a hand on my shoulder. “I know you're not one to ask,” he says, “but... we're here if you need anything, okay? I mean it.”

“What I need is to be alone.”

Cameron pulls away, looks in my eyes with tears in hers. “Okay.” She rubs the escaping wetness away. “But you don't have to be.”

Chase resists his clear desire to hug me too.

I can't bring myself to say anything else. The three of us share a few moments of deep stares and uncomfortable silence. Well, it's uncomfortable for me. No idea about them.

“I'm going home,” I say finally, then hobble out. They linger behind. Either to let me ride the elevator alone, or because they don't know what to do.

* * *

“I'm here to pick up a prescription.” I tap my cane against the pharmacy desk.

The pharmacist approaches with a dubious look. “Dr House.”

“I need a refill on this.” I pull a crumpled prescription paper from the pocket of my jeans and spread it on the counter, smoothing the wrinkles.

He studies it. “I'm sorry. You'll need approval from Dr Foreman.”

And just like magic, the neurologist turned administrator swaggers over.

“You're here early,” I say to him. “Or is it late? You're not here just for little old me, are you?”

He doesn't answer.

“Wilson's already told you to keep me out of the cookie jar, huh?”

“Yeah.” He regards me with condescension as the pharmacist goes to the back and returns to organising the stock.

“Look, I'm sorry.”

He's not talking about the pills. It doesn't matter either way. “Don't bother.” I turn towards the nurses shuffling by with folders and carts, fidget with my cane. “What a beautiful world we'd live in if being sorry could change anything.”

“Take some time off, if that's what you need... or don't, if that's better in your case.” He pauses, concern shining through the arrogance. “Just don't be an idiot.”

My eyes narrow at him.

“Here.” He pulls a bottle from his jacket, passes it to me.

Oxycodone. Five count. Nice. Too few to do much more than take the edge off for another day.

* * *

The sun glimmers at the edge of the horizon, sparkling through breaks between the brick buildings as my car comes to a stop at the kerb. Birds sing from the trees and rooftops, stark in the quiet of the still drowsy city. I hobble to my front door while an old man buys a paper from a roadside dispenser up ahead. For millions of people this is just like any other morning. Every detail adds to the surrealism of the aftermath of a storm that the rest of the world has no idea ever happened.

They're on the couch, Rachel across Thirteen's lap. My shoes scuffing on the wood causes the latter to jolt herself awake. Last night was exhausting for her too. I wonder for a second or so if she knows, but it's clear in the pitying gaze thrown my way as she eases Rachel off without disturbing her.

“Wilson sure didn't waste any time spreading the word.” I watch her approach, then glance at Rachel, sprawled on the cushion, sleeping without a care in the world.“He should enjoy telling her. He's got plenty of experience with crying kids.”

“It's gonna be hard for her.” Thirteen follows my eyes. “But I'm honestly not sure it's any easier for you.”

“I'm a big boy. I'll be fine.” I slide my cane upwards, then let it drop, stopping it just short of making a sound. “On the bright side, I can start having hookers over again.”

Thirteen squints in disbelief. “You don't mean that.”

I don't remark. “You can go. I'll call Julia to get Rachel.”

She stays planted in place, tossing a backward glance at the sleeping little girl in question.“Are you really okay with that?”

“What, you going home? It's about damn time.” I feign ignorance for a moment before speaking again. “Oh, right, you mean Rachel. She's not my problem.”

Thirteen turns a harsh eye. “I know you're in pain right now–and I don't just mean your leg—but you can't take it out on her. She needs you and—”

I interrupt.“She's got people to take care of her.”

“ _You_ need _her_ ,” Thirteen finishes.

Really? What a ridiculous notion. Why the hell would I need a sticky fingered three-year-old? I take a moment to digest her laughable idea. “I'm not gonna be worrying about some kid.”

“Some kid?”

“She's not my daughter.”

She stirs at our raising voices.

“She's not even Cuddy's daughter, dammit. She's just the product of an unwanted pregnancy that happened because stupid teenagers didn't know how to use a condom.”

“House!” Thirteen hisses, motioning with her eyes and the tilt of her head towards Rachel, who's groggily sitting up now, facing me with the most innocuous expression. One that turns my tongue to a rock in my mouth.

“Sorry we woke you, sweetie,” Thirteen says, softening and going to her. “You wanna watch TV?” She snatches the remote from the coffee table. “I need to talk to House alone for a bit, okay?”

“Okay.” Rachel takes the remote, clicking a button, swinging her legs at the edge of the cushion. The TV comes on and spews out convenient camouflage.

Thirteen slices me with her eyes on the way over. I follow her out. A few paces down the hall, towards the bedroom, we're safely out of earshot.

“What the hell's wrong with you?” she blurts. “You don't have to do this.”

My back slams against the wall. “Cuddy's dead.”

She's quiet for a moment, before speaking softer.“I know.”

“She wanted to see her mom and sister. To say goodbye.” I clench my cane, squeezing until the pigment leaves my skin.

It happens so fast, I'm not even sure what I'm doing. I whirl around and smash the cane into the book shelf. Wood on wood rings out. “I didn't let her.”

Thirteen's a blur in my periphery, watching without flinching.

“I didn't...” Another smash. And another. And another even harder.

_Snap._

Half the cane and a chunk of shelf clatters to the floor, books spilling into a pile on top. I swing again with what's left. Splinters fly. More books. 

My hand surges with pain. “I didn't tell her...” I huff, voice faltering. “I didn't even tell her I loved her!” My breath hitches in my chest.

Thirteen comes closer. I don't look at her. She pries at my throbbing fingers, easing them off the half-shattered cane handle. I let go, let myself slide down beside the mess.

“She knew,” she says after a moment.

“Did she?” I peer up at her. “Because I think that's just one of those useless platitudes people vomit all over you when someone dies.”

“There's a reason people do that.” Her eyes are glassy. “Cause if we don't... if we don't try to believe it... we'll fall apart.”

“Speaking from experience?”

She kneels, then sits on a clear patch of floor beside me. “I avoided my brother, before the end. Barely talked to him. Never visited. Always told myself it was because I was busy.” She pauses, looks to the wall across from us. “That was a lie.” She releases a deep breath. “I was just scared.”

Words don't come to me. Whether related to my own turmoil, or hers.

“But I have to believe he knew I loved him. I have to believe...” She gulps, fighting back tears. “That what I did was the right thing.”

The sight stirs something deep within. “It was,” I say.

Her eyes thank me.

Neither of us speak for a while, the sound of cartoons echoing from the living room.

She lifts a book by its spine, flaps it closed. “Life sucks. It's not fair. Things happen that don't make sense, things we can't do anything about.” Her fingers trace the cover. “We can't change the past. We can't change the stuff we regret.” She sets the book beside the heap. “But we can change the future. We can try to stop making more regrets.”

“You're suddenly optimistic,” I grumble.

She tucks her hair behind her ear and faces me again, eyes drifting down.“You've torn your stitches.”

I redirect to the unmistakable red seeping through the pale blue pyjama bottoms. Didn't feel it until now.

“Come on.” She pulls herself up and extends her hand to me.

“Fine. Patch me up and go home.” I take it, let her help me to my feet.

Her eyes meet mine, uncompromising. “I'm not leaving.”

Great. Just what I need.

“Let me guess,” I say, an arm over her shoulder as we hobble to the bathroom. “Wilson didn't just call to give you the news. He's offered you a new babysitting gig.”

“Yeah,” she scoffs, bittersweet. Then comes something that catches me off guard. “But that's not why.”

I stop moving, stare at her intensely. I want to make a retort. To say I'm touched, full of sarcasm, but I can't. Maybe because on some level, I want her to stay. Maybe it means something to me. Maybe it offers me a scrap of warmth when everything else is cold. Maybe I've been shaken enough to admit that, even if only for a passing moment.

* * *

12 May (Three Days Later)

Figures garbed in sombre tones line the pews of the synagogue. I linger at the far back by the door, leaning against the wall to keep the weight off my leg. It's an ambiguous tangle of Jewish tradition and secularism I can't pretend to understand. The rabbi gives a sermon in Hebrew, then all the people who knew her take the stand, one after another, spewing their own trite speeches.

Arlene tells of how Cuddy was always stubborn and driven, how they never got along well, but that she, in her own words, loved Lisa more than she knew. Julia tells how her sister was the smart one, the strong one, the person she admired most in the world.

Foreman tells of how he's grateful to have inherited Cuddy's position, that he learned a lot from her, but that it will never be the same without her running things. Cameron tells of how she was stern and at times unapproachable, but that was what made her tough and able to handle such a stressful job. Chase tells, half-joking, that she scared him most of the time, but that was what he liked about her. Thirteen says simply that it's hard to lose those we love and it can be even harder for us to express that pain.

Around that point, Rachel hustles through the congregation, led by an older girl. One of Julia's kids.

Wilson is last. We still aren't talking. “Lisa was a good friend,” he starts, adjusting the mic. “I think she was special to everyone here in their own way. Even those of us who can't come up here, for whatever reason.” His gaze slices my way. That's aimed at me, in the worst sort of passive aggression.

“She was stolen from us before her time. Taken from her mother, her sister, her daughter, and...” He pauses, locking eyes with me again in a way that kindles the unspoken tension between us. “All of us,” he finishes.

He has no intention of speaking on my behalf. Good. I don't want him to. I shouldn't even be here. This was stupid. It's not going to change anything. I jerk my tie loose, rip the kippah from my head and toss it into the basket on the nearby table.

I turn for the door, exit to the damp greenery of the surrounding yard. The metallic chirps and irritatingly shrill twittering of cardinals in the brush makes an annoying soundtrack to compliment the mocking sun glaring in my face as I pull the bottle from my suit pocket. The pill goes down lumpy.

I hobble to the parking lot, headed for the Dynasty. The gravel crunches under my shoes and the past three days flash through my mind. A combination of oxycodone, alcohol, and not showering until my body odour turned pungent and the untended stubble began to sprout into the wiry thicket it is now.

Nights were spent tossing and turning in a cold sweat, days in the dark, both times my head swirling with the last moments with her. Thirteen was undaunted and guarded her post in my living room like a dutiful watch dog.

Cameron and Chase came a couple of times. I pushed them away. Or maybe the smell did. Foreman called once, to be ignored. Wilson, several times, of course. Didn't answer him either. He didn't come in person.

For some reason, I surrendered to the expected and obligatory performance, cleaning myself up and coming to the funeral. I don't know why. Yeah, she'd want me to. But it doesn't atone for any of my hundreds of failures.

I reach the car. I'm about to open the door when a figure in my periphery comes into focus. Tight skirt, low cut top. Completely inappropriate for this occasion. She leans against the Dynasty, regarding me with some combination of sorrow and sympathy as my brain registers the visual input in front of me. It's not possible.

“How... how are you here?” I want to reach out and touch her, but I don't. “You're not real.”

“Of course, I'm real, House,” Cuddy says. “What are you taking about?”

I can't speak for a few minutes, staring blankly, going over all the possibilities. Did I imagine it all? Was it just a long nightmare? Maybe this wasn't her funeral. Maybe she was never even sick.

“Let's go for a walk.” She grabs my hand and tugs me away from the car, in the direction of the adjoining cemetery.

It's all too easy, but I don't care. I don't care if it doesn't make sense, if I'm losing my mind. Whatever reality is, this is the one that matters. The one I want. And I'm going to have it.

She leads me off the gravel and through the meadow of fluffy, seeding dandelions. The grass rustles under our movement. The songs of the birds don't seem annoying any more. After a bit, she lets go of my hand and takes a few steps ahead to lean down and pick one of the flowers. This so unlike her, but it doesn't matter. She's here.

“I'm sorry,” I say.

With a breath, she sends the white fuzz off on the breeze, then turns to me, quiet for a moment. “For what?”

I shift my cane on the soft ground. “For everything.”

She drops the flowerless stalk.

“It was just... it was so stupid. It wasn't supposed to happen like that.” I glance over the moss-covered brick fence at our flank, to the sea of headstones. “And I was afraid.”

She stands, closes the gap between us again. “Me too.”

“I love you.” I grab her hand and squeeze it. “I've always loved you. I should've told you more... I should've done a lot of things. I wanna change that now.”

She watches me with grim intensity for a couple of seconds. “You won't leave me, will you?”

It takes a moment to process. The rational part of my brain sends alarm signals. What does she mean? It's like we're having two different conversations. I tell it to shut up. It doesn't matter. “No,” I answer, half-confused.

“Promise?” she asks.

The puzzle pieces lock together in my mind. I know what this is. I know, but I can't let it out. I don't want to. Because then it will all collapse in on itself, this fabrication of mine. And I'll lose her again. I'll lose the chance to make it right.

“I'm sad,” she says. “But it made me happy to see you.”

Her words aren't right. I freeze, grip her hand tighter, boring through her with my eyes. “Please... don't go.” It creeps out of me, desperate. “Stay with me.”

She stares, wide-eyed, like she's surprised, like she doesn't understand. “Can I?”

Fear clutches me. Fear that if I even blink again, she'll vanish and I'll be left holding air.

“You're crying.” She points to my cheek. It's wet.

My eyes close. I couldn't stop them. I gulp, open again. And now she's gone. It's just a stretch of dandelions ahead.

“It's okay.” A little voice makes me flinch.

I'm not alone. There's still a hand in mine. Just smaller than I thought.

“I miss Mommy too.” Rachel glowers up at me.

Another tear rolls down. I can't even flick it away. My cane plops to the grass. I scoop her up in my arms and hold her close.

I can't tell Cuddy I'm sorry. I can't tell her that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. That I wanted us to be a family. I can't change any of that. But, with my hand cradling the back of Rachel's head, I know now what I _can_ do.

Crunches of gravel make me turn back towards the synagogue. Shapes loom into focus in my bleary vision, inkblots against the colours of spring all around. They're coming closer. A row of men hauling a pine box up the path.

I swipe my eyes with my sleeve, Rachel adjusting her hold around my neck.

The rest of the procession trails behind. It's not long before they're close enough for me to register their faces. The immediate family stop in their tracks at the sight of us. Arlene is surprised, yet oddly satisfied. Julia trades a look with me that's half concern, half relief before saying something to her husband. There's a teary gaze from Cameron, nearly the same from Chase. A nod from Foreman. A muted smile from Thirteen, one that says she knew I'd do the right thing.

Wilson breaks from the group at the same time as Julia, both headed this way while remainder continue to the burial site.

I set Rachel down as they approach. She clings to my hand again. It's an awkward moment. Julia starts to open her mouth, then doesn't. Wilson waits for his turn, clearly preferring the two of us talk alone. Looks like it's up to me.

“Lisa changed her mind at the end,” I say. “She wanted me to take Rachel.”

Rachel leans against my leg now, half hiding behind me, like she's afraid her aunt will pull her away from me.

Julia digests the idea. “And what do _you_ want?” she asks, straight-forward.

Wilson eyes me the same way he'd watch a boulder teeter on the edge of a cliffside.

I hesitate for a second, tilting my cane handle, only because these things don't come easily to me. It pushes out harsh and quick.“I want her to be my daughter.”

Julia's expression remains neutral. “All right.”

“That's it?”

“If that's what Lisa wanted... and what you want, I've got no arguments. It's clear Rachel loves you.”

Tension I wasn't even aware of releases from my muscles. I thought I'd have a battle on my hands. Thought I'd have to claw and fight to prove myself. I'm trying not to look surprised. Don't know if it's working, but Wilson isn't hiding it very well.

“We can settle the paperwork soon.” Julia steps closer, kneels in front of Rachel. “You're going to be living with House, okay?”

Rachel gives a big nod.

“Okay, sweetie.” Julia kisses her cheek, then backs away. She looks between me and Wilson before turning to leave. She doesn't have to explain. She's going to join the others.

When her back is a few feet from us and Rachel is playing with dandelions, Wilson finally speaks up. “I'm proud of you,” he says, straight-faced.

“Oh, come on. Don't talk to me like I'm five.”

He ignores that, maintaining the annoying, patronising expression on his face. “It's been hell, you know... worrying about you. Even if we managed to keep you from...” He pauses and looks at Rachel, who's engrossed in twirling a flower stem. His meaning is clear, so he doesn't finish.

It's like regurgitating a rock, but I have to say it. “I'm sorry. You were right.”

Rachel puffs and flurries of white dance in front of her before drifting to the ground.

“I was stupid. With the experimental drug... the cutting myself up in the bathtub.”

He sighs. “I'm sorry too.” Tears well in his eyes, an external marker of everything that's been churning inside him, everything that can't be put into words. His arms raise, then drop, then raise again, in a robotic dance.

“I need to hug you now, okay?” It's like a question, but he doesn't wait for me to respond. In a quick and shaky motion, he latches onto me.

His arms are a crushing weight bearing down, but not because he's squeezing. I can't fight it. I hug him back.

“You're gonna move back in with me,” he says. “You and Rachel. No arguments.”

“Fine.” My jaw moves lazily against his shoulder. “Because I don't have any.”

The short while we stand like that feels like an eternity. I've haven't lost the only person who loves me, the only person I love. We pull apart.

“I should've told you about the hallucinations... seeing Amber again.”

He flicks away an errant drop on his cheek, brows tightening. “Are you still seeing her?”

The last time was just before Cuddy went into v-fib. I pan the field, the fence, the headstones, by the tree ahead. Still nothing.

“I don't think so.” My eyes dart to Rachel twirling another flower stem. “I don't want to go back to Mayfield.” The admission leaves my lips alongside full awareness of how pathetic it sounds, like a child begging to stay home from school.

He glances to the fluff blowing around Rachel as she bounces towards us, then looks back at me. “You're gonna be okay.”

A wrenching knot in my stomach tells me otherwise. Then Rachel stares up at me, grabs my hand. It's stupid, but... maybe he's right about this too. No, of course he is. Like almost always.

Rachel takes his hand next and we start walking with her in between us, headed to the burial site.

“You know, we probably look like a couple.” Wilson rubs away another tear and forces a laugh.

“Yeah.” My breath pushes out with the strain of another limp. “Too bad I don't care.”

“What are you talking about?” Rachel asks.

“Nothing interesting.” I look down at her. “What _is_ interesting is how you managed to sneak out earlier without anyone noticing.”

“I lied,” she blurts proudly. “I said I had to pee. Cindy took me to the toilet and when she wasn't looking, I ran out.”

“What a little criminal mastermind you are.”

“It's almost scary.” Wilson gives a weak smile.

I can't stop a slight one myself.

“You'd better watch out. You're gonna have a monster on your hands in ten years.”

“I'm not worried. I've got sufficient backup.”

His smile widens a bit, then vanishes as we pass through the gate into the cemetery. The others are visible ahead, family taking turns pouring handfuls of dirt into the grave.

The reality returns like a noose around my neck, choking the air out. I stop, which makes Wilson and Rachel stop. It's a cliché question, but I can't keep from asking. “How do you go on?”

Wilson takes a moment, watching the group ahead.“A day at a time,” he says. “I still miss Amber every day, cry sometimes when no one's around.” His eyes turn to Rachel, between us. “But there are reasons to smile. And I know she'd want me to.”

“You'll get through this.” He gives me a determined glance, then looks at Rachel again, pats her head. “We all will. Because we're together.”

My cane grinds against pebbles as I shift it. The sappiness seems to swirl into my mouth and cling to my tongue like a thick glob of corn syrup. But... it's true. We can't always get what we want, but sometimes we get what we need. And that's what really matters.

* * *

One Year Later

I don't remember whose idea it was now, apart from my having little say in the matter, but every Saturday night Thirteen, Chase, and Cameron come over for dinner and a movie. Rachel still loves anything with pirates.

“Babies are so boring!” Rachel stops in front of Chase and Cameron, cuddled close with their infant son. “When can he play with me?”

They smile. “He'll be ready in another couple of years,” Cameron says.

“That's too long!” Rachel sags in exaggerated disgust.

“Come and sit down, sweetie.” Wilson pats the space on the couch beside us

“Yeah, you're blocking the TV.” I sweep the air with my cane.

“I am?” She juts her chin up and marches over.

“Yup.”

“That's okay.” She turns around. “I can see fine.”

“What a little angel you are.” I grab her by the sides and tug her onto my lap, wriggling and laughing.

Thirteen's eyes glint at the sight from the recliner. “I wonder who's teaching her that.”

“Don't look at me. She's a natural.”

She spills over into Wilson's lap, half on mine, half on his. He tickles her and provokes more squirming. And like that, she manages to have us all laughing. Something she does often.

* * *

I inch my body to the edge of the bed, facing the nightstand with Cuddy's photo. The glow of the alarm clock paints her teal-blue. “Rachel's getting so grown up,” I say, without raising my head from the pillow. “Yeah, you wouldn't be thrilled about a few things.”

My eyes roll sheepishly as if hers can glare from the shadowy photo and bore through me. “I still let her watch Brownbeard. And she usually stays up past ten. School mornings are a disaster. And...” I draw my lips into my mouth, hesitating. “Sometimes she has cookies for lunch.”

“But,” I quickly add. “Wilson makes sure that doesn't happen too often. He's good with her."

In the quiet, a whisper creeps from the next room. Speaking of Wilson... sounds like he's having a conversation of his own. Better when he's the one talking to Amber.

“Thirteen helps out sometimes, too.”

Another pause. Wilson's words are too muffled to decipher. I lift my head and fluff my pillow.

“But I think you'd be proud of her,” I say. “And me.”

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you've enjoyed the story as much as I did writing it. Please share your thoughts if you have the time. I'd love to hear your opinions.


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